


You Were My New Dream

by princesshalo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Also Harry is a bit naive so, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fantasy, Feminization, Fluff and Angst, Harry likes ~girly things but he is not a girl, Harry’s 18 and Louis is 26, Homophobia, Innocent Harry, Inspired by Disney, M/M, Masturbation, Mentor Louis, Not major beloved characters tho, Pain kink? A lil bit, Some blood/gore/death, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 49,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesshalo/pseuds/princesshalo
Summary: ~Tangled AU~Prince Harry has spent the majority of his life trapped within the castle walls, forced to hide from the kingdom he never asked to be born into. He doesn’t want to be the next King of Eroda, because according to his father, kings don’t wear dresses, paint their nails, or braid flowers into their magical hair. And Harry happens to love those things about himself, almost as much as he thinks he could love the new combat instructor his father has summoned to mold him into a more acceptable man, just in time for his impending coronation.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 30
Kudos: 233
Collections: Disney Direction Fic Fest 2020





	1. First Act.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Once again, I set out to write something cute and quick that ended up becoming a huge angst fest with some fluff sprinkled in. Hooray!
> 
> As with most Disney productions, I implore you to suspend your knowledge of the world in which we currently live and step into a whole new world of ambiguous time periods and magical happenstance. I did draw some inspiration from the English Medieval era for this, so feel free to keep that in mind for scenery and clothing references. However, if you hold me too closely to that, a lot of other things will be historically inaccurate. So just relax and enjoy the ride, homies.
> 
>  **Disclaimers:** I neither own or am affiliated with anything Disney or 1D. Title borrowed from the single most romantic Disney quote of all time. (If you haven’t seen the movie yet, your life is empty but who am I to judge)
> 
> Now with all that out of the way, here’s to hoping that my lil ‘ol story does one of my favorite movies some small semblance of justice. Enjoy :) x

There isn’t a single thing in the world that Harry loves more than his hair.

He loves to brush and braid it, loves to wash and dry it, loves to sing to it and let it heal his heart and mind and soul.

Some days, he loves to let all his curls loose to dance around him in the breeze created by his steps, while other days he loves to dedicate a whole afternoon to detangling and weaving decorative flowers into it, like the work of art it was meant to be.

To be fair, it became quite easy to love his hair considering how little else there was for him to focus on in life.

He hadn’t entered the world beyond the castle walls since he was a kid, although bits of it were visible from the window of his bedroom at the top of the very tallest tower in the very back of the castle. So while he’d taken up a multitude of indoor hobbies to pass the days, sometimes nothing worked to soothe his restless soul like simply watching the clouds and stars turn from day to night.

There are other things to observe, of course, like the grass and trees and leaves and the fruits that grow on them. There’s peaches and apples that grow in the orchard out back and he can never decide which he loves more. He loves to bake a sweet cinnamon apple pie, mix the fruit in his pancake batter or use it to whip up a batch of tarts for the castle staff, he can dip them in caramel, and even request for them to be chopped up in his salads for lunch. Just as he loves how peaches are sweeter to eat freshly picked, make for much better jams and marmalade, and pair perfectly with wider array of flavors like cream and lemonade.

He loves that he’s learned to predict exactly what times the sun will set and rise each day, and he loves to wake up in time to catch both. He loves the art that he paints on his chamber walls, most of which depicts all the different gradients of pinks, yellows, and oranges that he’d observed over the years, and he loves that each new sky is just as unique as the last. He loves all his other paintings of the forest expanse around the kingdom and the bees, birds, bunnies, and deer that came to rest nearby.

He also loves how pretty it makes him feel to paint colors onto his fingernails and toes. He loves feeling pretty, which is why he also loved sneaking the dresses from his sister’s wardrobe to wear around his chambers until she eventually taught him how to stitch his own fabrics together. Then he began to love bringing his own creations to tangible life.

The king very vocally did not love all the prettiest things about him, though.

Sometimes Harry felt like the king didn’t love anything about him at all, but it went without a shred of doubt that the qualities deemed feminine were at the top of his father’s list. And somehow, that vocal distaste only made Harry want to explore the divinity inside himself even deeper.

*

“Prince Harrison, Our Majesty requests your presence,” the king’s number one advisor calls from the opposite side of Harry’s bedroom door as he’s just begun his morning braiding session.

“It’s Harry, Sir Michael,” he sighs, still running the bristles of his brush down the partial length of the soft brown waves that grew far beyond his feet, “I’ve told you that a thousand times. Call me Harry, please.”

Harrison was the family name given to him by his father, passed onto him from his father, which was given to him by his father, and so on. It was actually Prince Harrison Edward Styles The Seventh, because like most royal families, this one thrived on tradition. And for all the things Harry loved in life, there was little on earth that he loathed more than tradition. It may as well be named for what it actually is: routine, repetition, a giant, unending snoozefest. His whole fucking life existed as a series of patterns and expectations based on ancient and outdated traditions.

“Yes, Your Highness, my apologies,” Sir Michael clears his throat, “I’m afraid I’m still getting used to that one. You’ve been Harrison since you were just a wee baby.”

Harry sets the heavy golden handle gently down onto the cushioned interior of the intricately carved matching case gifted from mother, when his hair first began to reach his toes. He pushes away from the vanity mirror and rises towards the door.

“I know,” Harry says once they’re face to face. He directly addresses Sir Michael’s aged, wrinkly eyes when he stresses, “But it’s Harry now.”

Sometimes he did get it right, but really, since Harry had established it way back when the rift began to form between him and the family legacy in his preteen years, it shouldn’t be that hard to have mastered it by now.

“Duly noted,” Sir Michael nods as he goes on, “Sorry to interrupt, Prince Harry, but the king awaits.”

Harry nods as he reaches around the back of his head to pull the entirety of hair over his shoulder and then to drape the longer ends over his arms for better carrying down the red carpeted corridors on his way to the throne hall.

“Good morning, father,” Harry only pokes his head into the hall at first, hoping it’ll be something quick that will allow him to get back to his hair, which he can already tell has sprouted new tangles just from bundling it up to get here.

“Close the door,” comes the king’s answer from far on the other side of the wide open space, where their four golden seats are aligned atop a platform in front of the stained glass windows.

Harry sighs again as he steps inside, sure to carefully close the heavy, towering structure behind him.

He hadn’t had the chance to even change out of his sleep shorts yet, so he was a little underdressed considering his father has already donned his royal garments for the day, but he knew that Dad would still consider it far more appropriate than his silky pink nightgown anyway.

“Sit,” the king commands, motioning to Harry’s spot on the slightly less prestigious throne positioned to the right of him.

Harry does as told, throwing his hair over the back of the seat to lessen its presence when he’s settled in.

“Today is a day of change,” the king announces, pausing to anticipate Harry’s reaction.

“Why is that?” He wonders out loud, perfectly playing his role.

“As you know, your eighteenth year was marked last month,” the king reminds him, obviously pleased with himself for some reason Harry hasn’t discovered yet. 

Harry had received a wreath of preserved flowers from mother, a wall mounted boar’s head from father, and a rather enchanting set of various fabrics and dyes from his sister, Gemma. The entire castle staff was invited to a feast held in his name, and just as every year before, it felt like nothing more than a hollow and false display in the name of presenting a celebratory appearance. That feeling only seemed to increase with age, and it became more prevalent than ever this time around, seeing as how he'd come to expect the eighteenth to be regarded as something special. The princess got to take a mother-daughter trip to the seaside villages on her eighteenth, so Harry had been hoping to at the very least be allowed to show his face outdoors. It was a tremendous letdown to experience it as the norm.

“Which means that your mother and I are aging as well,” the king continues, “I’m sure you realize that we won’t be around forever.”

Harry swallows as what his father is getting at slowly begins to sink in.

It’s the day he dreaded was coming, and yet some small part of him had prayed would be dismissed in favor of appointing his perfectly capable older sister as the heiress to the crown. As would make far more sense, from Harry’s point of view. But it’s not as if that point of view has ever counted towards any other areas of life either.

“I understand that,” he says, throat dropping into his stomach, stiffening both his voice and stance.

“Do you understand what it means for you and the kingdom?” His father asks.

“Dreadfully so,” Harry acknowledges.

“Dreadfully?” The king inflects, as if it’s a shock that Harry would be anything less than thrilled to take over in his absence.

“Surely you haven’t been under the illusion that I’m anticipating this day’s arrival,” Harry quips, this time turning his head to the side in favor of staring through the colored glass at the cloudy sky beyond it.

If they always meant for it to be him, why wait until his eighteenth to officially drop the bomb? Gemma is so clearly more prepared to take on such a responsibility. She’s been making public appearances and participating in royal events since childhood, so the kingdom already knows and loves her, whereas they haven’t even seen Harry’s face since he was just a boy. She’s told him before that the townspeople believe the prince had passed away when he was young, thus the royal family mourned in privacy and banished the subject forever. They’re all still eagerly awaiting the announcement of a new baby even after all these years, and apparently the king has just let them.

It’s sad, it’s tragic, and yet, his father remains stuck on the infuriating _tradition_ of the first born son being the rightful heir.

He lets Harry have his moment of pensive silence before continuing.

“No matter. Naturally, Eroda is your responsibility regardless of your excitement level towards the fact,” he clears his throat as he goes on, “And it is time we start preparing you to take on the role of a protector.”

“Is it too late to suggest that Gemma might be the more appropriate choice for the crown, then?” Harry tries one last time as images of stupid royal events and expectations begin to crowd his brain and claw at his insides.

“As if a woman could be fit for such responsibility,” the king quickly yanks that cloth clean off the table.

That’s when the first spots of Harry’s blood begin to boil. He doesn’t want to be king. Not of a kingdom where it’s apparently dangerously unacceptable for him to openly exist as he is, dresses and all. He hardly considers this place or the castle walls a home, let alone values any of it enough to hold its future in his hands.

“Despite not even being fit for my current role of a prince?” Harry lets the challenge in his voice slip through gritted teeth.

“Of course I intend to mold you into the leader that Eroda needs,” the king says, leaving little room for discussion as always, “Which is why the first part of your training begins today.”

Harry just presses his lips together tightly, knowing better than to overstep too far and yet, feeling the effects of his father’s authority echoing deep within his bones.

“Now, there is quite a bit of work to be done before you’re ready,” his father goes on to mention, “You’ve lived a certain life, incredibly unlike my own, that’s left quite a bit of weakness in you.”

“You’re referring to the way you’ve kept me locked away like some kind of prisoner since I was too young to even understand why,” Harry snaps this time as he whips his head back to face his father with a burning behind his eyes.

He watches the clench of the king’s jaw take hold in the struggle to keep himself composed.

“A prisoner would not have been afforded such luxuries as you have,” is what he has to say for himself.

“Do you mean the luxury of occupying myself with empty hobbies to distract from the fact that I’m hardly allowed to even be a person, the luxury of knowing next to nothing of the world outside the castle walls, or perhaps the luxury of your expectation for me to rule an entire kingdom of people who probably aren’t even aware that I’m still alive after all this time?” The retort comes quicker than even he anticipated.

“You are more than welcome to re-introduce yourself to the people, once you decide to abide by the standard expressions of the kingdom they reside in,” the king backfires just as seamlessly.

“The kingdom’s standard of expression, or yours?” Harry counters.

“You have such a small understanding of the world,” the king argues, “As a man who presents himself so aggressively feminine, you should consider it a luxury that I’ve allowed you the freedom to exist as you please, so long as you’re kept out of sight.”

“Freedom!” Harry scoffs, “You mean the choice between my freedom of self expression and my actual, physical freedom?”

“A choice which you’ve made quite clear,” the king retaliates with a look of utter disgust.

“As you’ve made your disdain,” Harry returns.

“I had hoped my disapproval would sway your mind towards a bit of sensibility,” the king goes on, “Every one of the advisors that your mother and I summoned assured us this was only a phase you’d eventually grow beyond.”

“And yet, here I am,” Harry crosses his arms in defense, “Still in this phase, still hidden away like some dirty little secret, per Your Majesty’s command.”

The king purses his lips, pausing as he decides the best route of response to maintain his composure, though Harry can see his patience wearing thin.

If he doesn’t fight for himself, who will? How can he just stand back and let his life keep happening around him without any input towards his own future? He’s sat back for far too long, hoping that something might change without action. Hoping his father might soften his reign, hoping his mother might step in to speak for him, hoping that somehow, something would happen to release him from his tower and allow him to live freely in the world. And it’s all just been some silly little fantasy that never comes to fruition.

Now that his father suddenly wants to drop the kingdom into his lap and force him into the dreaded box of tradition, the hope that it will all just stop someday is looking more and more childish with each passing second. Of course it won’t stop. Of course his future has already been laid out for him, simply by being born to royal parents. Of course he’s the only one who can speak up for himself.

“The traditions of Eroda have been upheld through many generations of men, with myself as your predecessor,” the king explains, “Therefore, when you are ready to embody those teachings, you will be ready to reappear as king in my place.”

That t-word always seems to rear its hideous head whenever it’s the two of them together. So if there’s no breaking tradition, and if his father is cemented to the idea of Harry following in his footsteps as all other kings have done, then maybe it’s time to start updating some of those traditions.

He starts retreating into his fantasy world where all the boys can breeze around in their dresses as they go out to gather greens, while the girls hunt game in their tailored suits. Or even if his father’s words ring true that the men would find it ridiculous to do such a thing, he imagines at least giving them the choice to determine that for themselves. He imagines a land where women can be anything they want, even the primary ruler of a kingdom. Where men can be cooks and maids and fathers tend to the home while mothers support the family. A utopia of freedom and equal opportunity; The New Eroda.

“You know, now that I consider it, you have raised some good points,” Harry turns away again to focus on the elaborate doors down the other end of the hall, deliberately avoiding eye contact in a show of defiance, “I think when my time rises, I’ll be happy to introduce some more modernized teachings.”

“I will not be manipulated into meeting your demands,” the king raises his voice now, as he always does when Harry dares to speak against him or the faithful traditions of Eroda.

“I don’t need to manipulate,” Harry shrugs, “As addressed, it’s not as if you’ll be around forever.”

“Well then, let it be a blessing that I am still here to set you on the correct path,” the king booms.

“Try as you might,” Harry tilts his nose into the air.

He doesn’t see it coming when the king lands the back of his palm against Harry’s cheek, hard. Harry nearly falls from his throne with the force of it, and his reflexes instantly send his hand to cover the stinging burn as he looks up as his father, eyes widened and jaw dropped in shock and betrayal.

They’ve had their fair share of disagreements over the course of Harry’s years, but his father’s never dared to lay a hand on him in actual violence before.

So if there was any hope left to talk his way out of this, it’s killed in the sourness of that single instant.

“I’ve brought in a combat and survival instructor to mold you into some passable form of man,” the king dismisses him without an ounce of remorse in his tone, “Sir Michael will fetch you again shortly.”

*

A combat and survival instructor? What does that even mean? Like, physical combat? Worldly survival? What on Earth does any of that have to do with being a king?

He purposely puts on one of his favorite feminine garments for the day’s events in the hopes that Mr. Rugged Manly Man who’s come to train him in Fighting and Violence won’t be too pleased to meet the family disappointment in all his glory. And although he’s under no illusion that it will put an end to his father’s demands, he does intend for some feathers to be ruffled when he hears about it later.

So Harry’s gone with the first dress he ever made; a swooshy lavender thing with white lace around the edges, puff sleeves, and a corset bodice. The stitching is a little off on the left side, but in its years of wear has accustomed to fit the shape of Harry’s own body better than any of his others.

He’s not actually opposed to wearing male clothing, but the fact that there even is an off limits sign on either gender’s style is absurd. He could do without peasant garments, but the silks and laces and fancy shimmery threads of royal attire that he’s grown up around calls to him in a way that’s just too achingly lovely to ignore. And it’s not as if anyone outside the castle walls has ever seen him long enough to form an opinion such as his father’s anyway, so what reason does he have to believe that same father wouldn’t make up some cautionary tale of prejudice in the name of ‘guiding’ Harry towards the ‘correct’ path?

Maybe there’s some small part of Harry’s head that can believe it, because if his own father is so vocally opposed to such a sight, it’s likely there are others just like him. But a larger part of Harry’s head says that the king is simply a coward for having all the power his royal status affords and still shying away from how people might treat his own son. If he wanted to outlaw such discrimination, certainly he could do so.

Harry admires himself in front of the full length mirror while he finishes braiding the last few sprigs of baby’s breath that he can manage into the hair crown he’s fashioned around his head for last-minute purpose of at least keeping it from being a bother in front of his eyes. The rest of it that he doesn’t have time to put up before training begins simply curtains around him to gather in a pile at his feet, where he’s thrilled to find that the matching polish on his bare toes remains fresh as if it were just painted yesterday.

“Prince Harris—Harry,” Sir Michael calls from the other side of the door, alerting Harry of the mentor’s arrival.

“Come in,” he calls back, refusing to turn to even greet the man in a show of protest.

He does look over his shoulder as the door swings open and a figure takes a careful step into his chambers, stopping to admire the scenery.

The man _is_ handsome and rugged, although a bit smaller and daintier than Harry had pictured. He’s scruffy around his jawline and his hair disheveled in a way that looks completely accidental. The shirt underneath his vest, the tan trousers that hug his legs, and the leather boots they’re tucked into are all spotless, but worn just enough to make evident his experience in the world. He smells like the wilderness that Harry longs to disappear into, and Harry notices that despite the room’s length of distance between them, so it must just be that strong.

The man clears his throat loudly, demanding Harry’s full attention. And isn’t that just bold of him to call a royal in such a manner?

Harry turns around and instantly, the man’s face startles and he gasps, “Oh, what happened there?”

His voice is like running water; smooth and steady in its trickling ring. It stops Harry in his tracks, too.

He assumes the man means the growing welt on his cheek, but he can’t actually say that the king struck him after he dared to voice his opinions about the future of the kingdom, so he just shrugs.

“You don’t know?” Both of the man’s brows rise.

“I do know,” Harry says, “I just can’t tell you.”

The man holds Harry’s gaze for a moment that feels something like wordless comprehension. His eyes are so fucking blue that Harry would very much like to paint them exactly as they are in the moment, to capture that shade forever. And maybe just the shape, and the lashes as well. Harry’s such a sucker for the beauty of life. He’s seen a lot of sunsets and rises and clear skies and grey ones too, but never something so _inspiring_ before.

The man flips open the front of his satchel to dig around inside and produce a silver tin the size of his palm.

“Do you mind?” He hesitates as he holds out the labeless container, motioning at the space between them, “Can I come further?”

Harry tilts his head up defensively, instead choosing to close the gap on his own. Maybe it isn’t really a choice at all, because once he gets moving it feels like he’s being drawn forward regardless of choice anyway.

He watches closely as the man’s hands, delicate somehow despite their rigid capability, twist the metal top off and two fingers dip into the clear mush that’s inside. He slowly reaches towards Harry’s cheek, hesitating as if he’s only now realizing that he’s in the presence of a prince.

“May I?” He asks permission before proceeding, and those same eyes go so wide and so soft that Harry wouldn’t dare say anything but _yes_ to them.

His touch is gentle, careful as he swirls his fingertips against the swollen part of Harry’s face to rub the soothing substance into the throbbing skin.

“What is it?” Harry asks, belatedly. He can’t believe he just blindly trusted a strange man to smear him with some kind of mystery substance without even an ounce of hesitation. Some ruler he’d shape up to be.

He’s only inches apart from the striking beauty before him, and he briefly wonders if that can be credited for the fuzziness of his brain at the moment. Something about the scenery is just breathtaking. Humbling in its awe.

He’s never felt anything like this towards another person before. Granted, he hasn’t met many beyond the castle staff and the occasional visiting royal from a neighboring kingdom, but none of those passing faces have ever stirred something so indescribable.

Did that smack leave his head disoriented, maybe? That must be it. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind to comprehend the world properly at the moment, so he’d just have to wait until it wore off to have a normal reaction to this new mentor.

“Aloe,” the man smiles as he screws the top of the tin back on and tucks it back into his bag. “First survival tip: miracle cure.”

He has zero idea that Harry has a miracle cure of his own, and really, it’s Harry’s own fault that he wasn’t fully presentable for the mentor’s arrival. If he hadn’t been so busied with stewing over the current state of his life and trajectory of his future, he’d have healed himself before the man even arrived.

“Thanks,” is all Harry can muster as he reaches up to touch the sticky part of his face.

“Are you always so quiet?” The guy asks as Harry fights to pull himself out of the inexplicable trance.

“Generally, no,” he breathes a bit of a laugh at himself at the irony of being struck for refusing to keep his mouth shut in the face of all his father’s royal talk.

“In due time, then,” the guy says, and then he claps his hands once and rubs them together as he announces, “No matter! I’ve been brought here with a job today, so let’s get on with it. Louis Tomlinson, at your service,” he places a palm against his belly and bends slightly forward into a bow, “A pleasure to meet you, Your Highness.”

Harry doesn’t usually respond this way to new people showing their respects, but this time he feels compelled to say, “You as well, Sir Tomlinson,” because it actually does feel like quite the pleasure to meet him.

“Please,” Louis scrunches his face in brief discomfort, “Just Louis is fine. We’ll be working quite closely for a while, so it may as well be on a first name basis.”

“Okay, Just Louis,” Harry squeezes his mouth shut tighter to hold back his own smile at his own joke, “You can call me Harry, then.”

He watches closely as Louis’s lips stretch out in a huge grin that brings these sweet little lines to the edges of his face and Harry thinks he would like to include those in his painting if he can.

“Sounds good, Prince Harry Then,” he says coolly, “I just have one question before we get started.”

Harry braces himself for the worst, expecting something about his dress or his hair or the flowers tucked into it. So he just nods in wordless acknowledgement for Louis to continue.

“Would you prefer to begin with archery, sword fighting, or hand to hand combat?” Louis asks.

And that catches Harry even further off guard because no one has ever bothered to give him such a responsibility as choosing something on his own accord. Not to say that he didn’t make his own choices every day; which colors to shade his paints, which collection of seasonings, which scent of soaps and moisturizers to apply, when to wake and sleep and how to spend his day, etcetera. But when others were involved, nobody besides Gemma ever asked him things.

They just told him; the king wants you here, today you’ll stay hidden from company, the kingdom is your responsibility.

“You’re asking me?” He raises a curious brow in response.

Louis makes a show of looking around the chamber for another presence. “Unless you’re hiding a prisoner somewhere, I don’t suppose there’s anyone else I could be addressing.”

Harry feels the corner of his mouth turn up into the slightest hint of a smirk.

“Are you always so clever?” he teases him back.

“Indeed,” Louis gives him a little wink that tugs his stomach with it.

He takes a moment to imagine which task he could most see himself enjoying. Though the idea of doing anything to please his father is nearly repulsive in itself, he can’t say that he’d particularly mind getting to further explore Louis as a companion for the day, so he’ll have to play along just this once.

“I think I prefer…” he hums, deciding on the first option his intuition draws him to, “Archery.”

“Excellent choice,” Louis’s grin grows. “Now, forgive me for being new here, but would you mind escorting us to the arena?”

Harry nods, bending to gather the pile of his hair from the floor and drape it over his arm, briefly wondering how they’re going to manage this activity with his unbraided mess getting in the way.

“Do you usually carry all that around wherever you go?” Louis asks as he watches on.

Harry squirms, again fearing the judgement and ridicule he’s been prepared to face next.

“It’s usually braided for convenience,” he keeps his answer short and curt.

“Like the sweet little spots up top there?” Louis nods towards the hair wrapped atop his head, but Harry’s more focused on the word _sweet_ that just came from his mouth to describe it.

He clears his throat. Why does his face feel warm again all of a sudden?

“Yes,” he says simply, “I didn’t know you were coming until an hour ago. Otherwise I would’ve planned Hair Day accordingly.”

“You have a whole day dedicated to your hair?” Louis’s brows rise with surprise, so Harry treads carefully again.

“It’s a lot of fucking hair,” he shrugs, and for some reason that makes Louis laugh.

And Louis’s laugh, for some reason, makes Harry smile along with him.

“That it is,” he agrees, and then offers, “Do you need to take a minute to fix it up? I don’t mind waiting.”

Harry blinks.

“You what?” His brain seems to have short-circuited.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Louis repeats himself with ease, “It probably won’t be easy to shoot with all that in the way, so in the name of efficiency.”

“Sorry, what?” Harry shakes his head and drops his arms, letting it all fall to the floor in a heap again.

“Is everything alright with you, prince?” Louis quirks his head to the side.

“Yeah, no, yes,” Harry says, not helping his case at all, “It’s just. I have a thing about it. My hair.”

“I can see that,” Louis chuckles, “Do you mind if I ask why that is?”

Harry purses his lips for just a brief moment. He’s not used to these sorts of questions at all. These feel more personal than even _why do you insist on doing such a thing to yourself?_ Or _exactly when do you plan on cutting it?_

“I guess I’m not used to it being respected,” he summarizes. Not to mention its magical qualities that go dreadfully unacknowledged on a daily basis, but that’s a whole other issue beyond the family gender hangups.

“Well, how very dare anyone for that,” Louis fake gasps as he places a hand over his heart in feigned shock, but Harry can tell that the sentiment is genuine despite his tone. “The pure stamina to take such care of it at that length deserves nothing but the utmost respect.”

“Thank you,” Harry smiles, and he simply has to look down at his toes to hide the depth of it. No one has ever said such a thing to him. Not even Gemma.

And what is that heat in his face? It certainly must be on fire at this point.

“Does my cheek look alright to you?” He blurts, raising a hand to gently pat the aloe covered side of his face.

“It is a bit red,” Louis says, but his face bears the crinkly-eyed smirk again, “Both of them are.”

“Why is that funny to you?” Harry frets, “Is it okay? Does it look infected?”

Louis’s smile keeps growing, “I think you’re just blushing, love. No need to worry.”

“I’m what?” He asks, “Is it dangerous?”

“Is blushing dangerous?” Louis repeats, and Harry nods furiously.

Louis starts laughing.

“In certain situations, I suppose it could get someone into trouble,” he says, “But in this particular instance, it’s alright. Just means I must have said something to make you feel good. Have you never blushed before?”

“I think I would remember it,” Harry can feel his brows scrunch together as he heads towards the chair before his mirror to get back to work. Louis did say something that made him feel good, but it wasn’t fair that he should know that without Harry telling him so. “I’ve read mentions of it in novels before, but hardly met enough people to cause such a reaction.”

“Well, Your Highness, color me honored to be the first,” Louis gives another bow, skipping right over the topic of his unwilling captivity to instead ask, “Do you do a lot of reading, then?”

“I try to have at least one thing going at a time,” Harry says as he settles in, grabbing for his brush to center himself to the motion of haircare, “I prefer nonfiction more than anything, though.”

“Interesting,” Louis says, “Not a big reader myself, but I am a fan of a good action novel based play.”

“Of course you would choose action,” Harry breathes amusement through his nose.

“Now just what is that supposed to mean?” Louis feigns offence, and Harry can only tell it’s fake because he’s still smiling.

“Just that you’ve been hired to teach me to fight for myself, so your passion is obvious,” Harry shrugs as he begins separating pieces of his hair.

“I’ll have you know there’s more depth to me than my work, prince,” Louis says.

“Like what?” Harry wonders.

Louis purses his lips and rests his eyes on the side of Harry’s head in a way that makes him feel like the star of whatever play Louis is currently watching.

“I’m a family man,” he says, “Also been known to strum a tune here and there.”

“What do you play?” Harry asks as his fingers begin to work their own practiced magic.

“Little fiddle, lute, bit of piano when I’ve got the chance,” Louis says.

“Quite the musician then, aren’t you?” Harry muses.

“Hardly that,” Louis chuckles.

“You might want to have a seat,” Harry shifts the subject, nodding to the ottoman at the end of his bed to indicate where, “I’ll try to be quick, but it still takes a while.”

“A whole day, apparently,” Louis remembers, going to sit where he’s directed, “Would you like a hand?”

For some reason, he feels his cheeks pinken again at the thought of that. It can’t possibly be the product of feeling good, because the idea of this strange man’s hands knowing the most coveted part of him in such an intimate way is positively ghastly.

“You wouldn’t know what to do,” he dismisses, focusing on the image himself in the mirror.

“I have five younger sisters, actually,” Louis counters, “So I do know a thing or two about braiding hair.”

“Five?” Harry blinks.

“And a baby brother, too,” Louis grins, “But he’s too little to learn just yet.”

“Will you be mentoring him on that, once he is old enough?” Harry teases, happy to see Louis’s smirk come back.

“Alas, my specialty is survival techniques,” he says, “But perhaps you could return the favor when all’s said and done? I’m sure the girls would love a few pointers from an expert such as yourself.”

Harry does not like blushing, he decides. Or maybe he just doesn’t like that Louis is able to do it so easily.

“That’s if my father doesn’t fire you for negligence after today,” Harry hums.

“That would be a first,” Louis chuckles, “How much did he tell you about me?”

“Nothing at all,” Harry says, tucking two more braids into the growing halo around his head. He usually likes to do five smaller rows on each side, then fold the remainder of loose hair a couple times, where it then gets separated into the three bundles that form the massive braid down the middle of his back. It ends up dangling just a few inches off the ground when all’s said and done, which is still far easier to manage than the mass of curls it becomes in its most natural state.

“The Tomlinsons have been employed by the royal family for ages,” Louis says as he leans back against the bed frame now to relax as he watches Harry’s hands work. “My father trained yours, and his father trained your grandfather, and so on. I don’t think it would be wise of him to sever such a reliable connection.”

“He is a man of tradition,” Harry agrees.

They chat a little more about life and interests and things and Harry can feel that bright blue piercing through him as he works. Louis eventually begins to look around the room, but he seems to sense Harry’s devotion to twirling his hair together, so he doesn’t ask questions about whatever it is he’s looking at. Just waits patiently for Harry to finally slip his favorite pearl necklace on, declare that he’s finished, and then admires his sloppy, rushed work with a smile of approval that blooms the blush into Harry’s cheeks yet again.

He counts four more times that day that it happens.

When they’re in the training arena downstairs and Louis is showing the proper form to hold the arrow against his face, keep his elbows out, and focus just slightly below the target he’s trying to hit. Louis uses the hands-on approach to position Harry’s arms just right before he shoots, and that’s blush number one.

Number two comes when, about thirty-something missed shots later, Harry hits his first bullseye. Louis cheers, claps, and holds his hand up for a high five. When their palms meet, Harry feels his face warm up again, so he dashes towards the target to pull his arrows out before Louis can notice.

Three happens later on in the session when they make a competition out of who can land two in a row first, and he’s sure that Louis let him win by missing exactly all of his shots just to make Harry feel good about his newly learned ability, but Louis swears it was all his doing and the way he says _Fucking awesome job, Harry!_ Gets the blood flowing right up to his cheeks again.

And the final blush of the day comes at the very end of the evening when Harry’s standing in the doorway of his bedroom and Louis just outside of it. He feels a bit sweaty and gross, and although he understands the necessity of shoes while training with deadly weapons, he simply cannot wait to kick his boots off again.

They’d already gone over the training schedule on the way back upstairs, so when Louis says, “Tomorrow, then, same time?” it doesn’t come as a shock. More like a strange spark of excitement. Harry actually found himself having fun doing a physical activity, per his father’s request, which is all completely uncharted territory for him.

“Same time,” he confirms with a smile back.

Louis lingers for a moment as he leans in to squint at Harry’s hair. He gets close enough to invade Harry’s unmarked bubble of personal space, causing him to recoil just a bit.

“Sorry, you’ve got…” Louis trails off as he reaches up at Harry’s head and it’s like he becomes a statue in the heat of Louis’s face mere inches from his own.

He simply adjusts one of the flowers in Harry’s braid, pushing it back into place from where it previously hung before.

“All better,” he pulls away, flashing his teeth to earn that final spring of color into Harry’s cheeks.

Harry just nods in acknowledgement and clears his throat, suddenly wanting to run as far from this unfamiliar bundle of nerves as he can. As soon as he’s alone, it’s down to the library to comb through the medicinal books for as much information on this god awful affliction as he can possibly find.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Prince Harry Then,” Louis says, giving another slight bow of farewell.

“You as well, Just Louis,” Harry half-smiles at their inside joke, then shuts the door as soon as Louis walks off, presses his back against it, and slides all the way down to a sit on the floor as he tries to let his heartbeat regulate.

*

The medical books that are able to name his symptoms (increased heart rate, low fever, reddened face) all cite that it can’t be anything more than allergies in the midst of spring, so that’s what Harry hangs onto for his next couple training sessions. Louis’s explanation about how he must have said something that made Harry feel good doesn’t go away though, and neither do the romance novels he used to read in his teenage years when he still used to have hopes for a life beyond the castle walls. He can’t help but notice that those books always featured a man and a woman, so it doesn’t make sense for it to be the same kind of blush, but the memories remain in the back of his mind, regardless.

Since the dress didn’t work to scare Louis off anyway, Harry tucks himself into a pair of rust colored shorts with swirly golden embroidery down the side the next morning, pairing it with a black, warrior-style tunic that has matching golden edges around the sleeves and the V-shaped neckline. Fastens a brown leather belt around the waist, slips his feet into some of the more casual boots without buckles on them, again with the pearls pressed around the pulse of his throat, then tucks a single sprig of mimosa into one of his side braids for the final touch before heading down to the training arena.

Louis probably doesn’t even realize how much Harry’s fashion means to him, so it’s not like he’s offended by Louis’s lack of response, but he’s also not used to people not criticising him one way or the other. If he’s in a dress, it’s _take that ridiculous thing off, you look like a pervert_. If he’s in shorts or trousers, it’s _you look so nice and appropriate today, Harrison_.

But Louis doesn’t seem to care either way, and Harry can’t decide if that’s a relief or a concern.

“You’ve got some really impressive weaponry down here,” Louis comments from the corner of the room, where he stands in front of a set up of battle axes and spiked flails.

“Will you be teaching me how to use those, too?” Harry wonders.

“No, no, not at all,” he chuckles, “I’m not a knight by any means. Just very well-raised to fend for myself.”

“Your father, and your father’s father, and his father…” Harry remembers.

“Yes,” Louis smiles. “Archery for hunting and defense, swords for purely offense, physical combat for when all else fails.”

“And first-aid,” Harry remembers the caress of his fingers on the skin of his cheek from before.

“Of course, of course,” Louis nods, suddenly squinting at Harry’s face as he notices, “Your welt is gone.”

Harry’s not ready to tell him about the hair yet. It’s his precious secret, his baby. If even his own parents are going to act like its power is meaningless, he can’t let just anyone in on exactly how vital it is to his being.

“I know some tricks of my own,” he deflects, “But we’re here for you to teach me yours.”

“Fair point,” Louis nods, “Although I do intend to revisit whatever those tricks of yours are at a later date.”

“We’ll see if you prove yourself worthy,” Harry simply smiles as class begins.

He really, really likes archery.

Louis stands back and watches for part of the morning, only for Harry to discover that he loves the quiet calm of the room while he holds the weapon at his face to aim. It’s like a hyper focused form of meditation as he hones in on the bullseye before him, all leading up to the release of his arrow to pierce his target. Maybe not exactly on point every time, and he does miss the occasional shot here and there, but after a few whole days of practice, he is getting better.

He takes his time reloading, also loving the meticulous repetition of it from that moment until he goes to retrieve his arrow.

He loves how powerful it makes him feel, the knowledge that a single shot through the heart could render anyone who crosses him dead on the spot. He loves the concentration and precision it takes to land on his intended mark.

He especially loves the reward of personal accomplishment when landing a bullseye, and double especially loves the reward of Louis praising his talent and encouraging him to keep going.

*

“Oh my God, you poor thing,” Gemma sympathizes with him as they paint each other’s toes in her bedroom that evening. She’s chosen a nice bright red for hers this week, and Harry’s going for a shade of blue that absolutely does not remind him of any eyes he’s been staring into a lot recently at all.

“I know, it’s weird. I don’t usually get this way around springtime,” he fusses as he watches her tiny brush color his middle toe.

“No, I mean, you poor thing, you’ve never fancied someone before,” she clarifies.

“Fancied?” He makes a face.

“You obviously like him,” she says.

“I mean, of course I like him. Who wouldn’t?” Harry blinks. “He’s sweet. And nice, and funny, and obviously quite skilled. Also knowledgeable,” he waxes on while Gemma remains concentrated on her work, “And really something to look at. Like, prettier than a sunset. And you know how much I love sunsets.”

“I do,” she smiles up at him.

He forgot to mention some of the other things he’s come to notice about Louis, so he keeps going in the name of making sure that she understands exactly how likeable Louis is without her having met him yet.

“He actually listens to me, and asks me things,” he explains, “And I quite like listening to him, too. He’s interesting. He really cares about his family and like, people in general. It doesn’t feel like proper training, or giving into father’s demands when I’m with him. It’s like we’re just hanging out. Having fun.”

“Mhm,” she nods as the smile on her face continues to grow.

“We joke around a lot, but he also knows when to be serious about teaching. I feel like I’m learning a lot,” Harry goes on, happily following his own train of thought as it takes him round the things that make Louis so great, “And best of all, he doesn’t think I’m a freak at all. I feel like he genuinely likes my hair and the way I dress.”

“Who wouldn’t? Besides father,” Gemma says, “You’re very pretty, H. You can pull off anything.”

It’s her who really cements the idea that it must just be allergies acting up around Louis. Because when she compliments him, nothing. So the blushing warmth can’t possibly be caused by someone saying things that make him feel good, it has to be his first ever allergy season. He considers that as she dips the brush back into her polish for a second coat.

“What’s that word again? Fancied?” He quirks his head to one side.

“Yep. Like I said, it means you like him,” she looks up when she smiles, “You’re blushing.”

“Allergies,” he maintains. Because he can count exactly zero times that the novels have ever mentioned a man blushing over another man.

“It’s because you’re thinking of Louis,” she tells him anyway. “Do you get all warm when you’re around him? Heart beats really fast? Feels kinda like floating on air and you suddenly forget your own name when he looks at you?”

He does. And yes. And even bigger yes.

But.

“Yeah, dizziness and low fever,” he attributes.

“Those aren’t allergy symptoms, you fool,” her smile fades away slightly, and that stirs worry in his heart.

“The books say—” he tries to object.

“They _can_ be allergy symptoms, sure,” she says, and of course he’d trust the wisdom of his big sister over a dumb old library book any day, “But you just compared this man to a sunset, which is an even bigger symptom of spending too much time around someone you adore.”

“But I adore you, and none of this ever happens when we’re together,” he says.

“Different kind of adoration,” she explains, “You want to kiss him, don’t you?”

“I do?” He asks.

“I’m asking you! Do you want to kiss him?” She rephrases.

“I haven’t considered that,” he says, honestly.

Sure, he’s read about kissing and more kissing and rubbing and touching and even making love and all the fluttery feelings that come with it. But he’s not sure exactly what they feel like, physically, outside of an arbitrary description.

And this is the first time he’s actually imagining any of that with Louis, so given that the novels always have a love interest that’s the opposite sex of the narrator, he’s more than a little concerned that the two of them doing those romantic things with each other is not a completely repulsive image.

“I’ll give you a hint: you do,” she breathes a tiny chuckle through her nose, “Oh, this is such a big moment. I’m so proud and yet, my heart aches for you that it had to be a man.”

“Why is that?” He wonders out loud, “I was just thinking that if blushing is supposed to be romantic, then why is it happening around Louis?”

He watches as her smile fully wilts and then disappears. She keeps swiping the tiny nail brush over his smallest toe without a word, and then when it’s finished, she twists the cap back on and sets the polish down next to his foot while it dries.

“Listen up, H. I want you to know that it is always safe for you to be yourself with me,” she suddenly looks very serious when she scoots her bum to sit next to him and rest a comforting hand on his knee.

“Of course I know that,” he says.

“Well, I’m relieved to hear it. Because you also need to know that other people aren’t going to be so accepting,” she looks him directly in the eyes as she explains, “I’ve seen men be hanged for homosexuality. The lucky ones, imprisoned for life.”

He frowns. Feels his brows scrunch harshly together. Swallows the lump forming in his throat at what he must’ve already known on some level, but to hear it confirmed in words that men shouldn’t be fancying other men makes it real and unavoidable.

Homosexuality. He didn’t even realize that there was a word for it.

“Because men don’t marry each other,” he says it out loud for himself more than anything. And really, he’s just learning what it even means to feel this way about anybody, let alone another man, so it’s not like he ever planned for them to fall in love or something. Because he knew all along that all this pesky blushing was foolish, which is probably why he tried so hard to convince himself it was just allergies, because he’s already enough of a freak as is. 

“Typically no, they don’t,” she confirms, “At best, you’ll be able to live in secrecy. But being next in line for the throne, you must have figured you’ll be expected to choose a queen eventually.”

He shakes his head to reject the idea. Not the idea of meeting a woman he fancies, because who knows? Maybe this is just a one-off thing, maybe he’s just enjoying having an actual friend besides his own sister. Maybe it will fade away.

But should that day come, he still loathes the idea of being expected to do anything. And again he feels small and helpless as he’s reminded that the crown he’s expected to wear comes with heaps of expectations that _he never asked to be held to_ and isn’t even sure he can meet without a great deal of sacrifice.

“This is what father’s always going on about, with protecting me from the world,” he processes out loud. A king couldn’t possibly hide something like this, let alone the way he wants to dress or present himself to the world. He supposes he could try, but what kind of life would that be? Having to pretend to be someone you’re not except in the privacy of your own home.

Maybe being kept hidden all these years actually has been for his own good. Maybe his father actually does love him in his own strange and unfair way.

Gemma just nods and lets him have a moment to digest on his own.

“And even when I’m king, can’t I just change it?” He asks. “What if… there has to be some kind of law I can enact that will allow people to live freely this way, you know? No one should be punished for this; it’s not like they asked for it. I certainly didn’t.”

“Oh, Harry,” Gemma smiles wistfully this time, “I suppose you could try, but not without enormous risk. Even kings aren’t invincible, you know.”

He nods as he stares down into his own lap. It feels like the walls of her room are shrinking in on him, trapping him even further into reality than he’s ever felt before. Some part of him wishes she hadn’t told him all of this, although he logically knows she only meant to warn him of slipping up in front of others. He just wishes he didn’t have to know how thoroughly wrong he is to the world, as if he ever even got the chance to suspect otherwise.

“Will I ever learn how to stop making life so difficult for myself?” He attempts a joke to push the tsunami wave of tears back down deep into his chest as he looks back up at her, “Can you teach me how you do it?”

“As if mine is always so breezy!” She scoffs, laughing a little bit maniacally at herself. “The best I can do is to be there for you when you need me. And you know I always will.”

She wraps her arms around him for a hug this time, although he doesn’t reciprocate, so she just ends up hugging his side close to her and rubbing his back in comfort. Even while stiff and largely unresponsive, she still seems to understand the storm of turmoil brewing within him.

“Love you,” he whispers into her arm.

“You too,” she whispers back, planting a kiss on his forehead that doesn’t spark even a molecule of what it feels to have Louis simply look his way.

*

Harry doesn’t get much sleep that night. He stays up into the wee hours of the morning, wandering the romance corner of the royal library. Most of the book spines there are covered in dust from not having been touched since his early teenage years when he and Gemma once read through them all together. He remembers when they used to race to see who could finish them the fastest and still have retained enough to discuss them at their weekly ‘book club’ meetings. Considering that’s when she began being paraded around the kingdom like a royal show doll, he always won. She’d catch up eventually, but was always a bit spotty on the details. He also knows that she prefers the mystery section these days, and it shows in the crisp of the pages he chooses that night which haven’t been turned in so long.

He doesn’t recall loving any particular story more than the others, so he just begins by pulling a few random novels off the shelves and skimming through the pages. Some part of him understands that he must be foolishly searching for any hint of something that likely doesn’t exist in published literature, but of course without any luck. Each and every one of the books they own are written from the perspective of a man fixating on a woman more beautiful than he can even believe, eventually catching her attention, winning his prize, and sometimes living happily together, while other times one or both ends up meeting some tragic end.

And each and every one of them include lots of heat and _blushing_ and craving and yearning and quivering and—you know. Allergies.

*

He won’t ever mention it to Louis. The risk of being revealed to all of Eroda is too great, and although his existence hasn’t been much to speak of thus far, he’s still wondering if maybe one day something great will happen to make life worth living again. Even if it happens after his reluctant coronation. Ruling the kingdom doesn’t necessarily mean that life is over for him, right?

Louis is very observant though, and Harry is apparently awful at concealing the blush on his cheeks every time he does something to earn praise.

So the next time he nails the bullseye in class and Louis says, “You’ve really got a knack for this, Harry. I’m impressed. Most of my other students find this portion the hardest to grasp.”

It just happens. The idea of Louis thinking he’s great—no, better than others—makes him feel unstoppable.

“Do you need a rest already or have you gone pink because you just love being told how amazing you are?” Louis grins; he’s teasing, of course. He seems to really love putting Harry on the spot like that. Harry’s a bit suspicious that he might just be saying these things to get a rise out of him rather than actually meaning it.

“S’just my allergies, as usual,” Harry tries to shrug it off.

“Allergies?” Louis’s snort turns into a whole laugh, but Harry really doesn’t find it that funny.

“Yes. Allergies,” He repeats.

“Are you allergic to praise?” Louis asks, in a tone that Harry has come to learn is reserved for jokes only. “Skin to skin contact? The presence of an older man?”

“The changing seasons, Louis. Pollen,” he says, “Obviously.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this arena is indoors, prince,” Louis counters.

“Dust, then,” Harry counter-counters.

“Alright,” Louis gets that grin on like he’s about to say something cheeky. “By the way, have I told you that I like your dress today?”

Today he’s chosen a velvety forest green number with sleeves just past his elbows, golden accents around the bodice, and a scoop neck to bare his collarbones where the pearl necklace is nestled comfortably in between. Technically, the blue nails Gemma gave him last night didn’t match, but he kind of liked the way that the two colors contrasted without clashing together.

“Thank you,” Harry says, summoning all his willpower to not let it happen, “I designed it myself.”

“You did?” Louis asks, looking genuinely surprised, “That’s quite an impressive skill. Do you design all of your own garments?”

“I do. And I sew them as well,” Harry clings to the change of subject regardless, feeling much more at ease with this discussion than the other one looming overhead. “My sister taught me how.”

“Looks like you’ve become quite the pro. They don’t look homemade in the slightest,” Louis says.

“To the untrained eye, maybe,” Harry comments, “But you should see her work; it’s flawless.”

“You haven’t mentioned your family much at all,” Louis notices, “Are you very close with the princess?”

“She means the world to me,” Harry smiles, dancing around acknowledging his parents at all.

“That’s sweet,” Louis smiles back, “You two look so much alike. Though, excuse my courage, I think she might be just a tad less beautiful than you are.”

This time he reaches out to finger over one of the braids around Harry’s ear, and then Harry realizes just a moment too late that Louis was purposely distracting him with conversation before he went in for the kill.

And it worked, because Harry fully forgot he was supposed to be focused on not blushing until he felt himself grow warm again.

“Pesky allergies,” Louis grins, waggling his brows in victory.

Harry knows he’s just being messed with. He might not be the best at social interaction, and he may be a bit sheltered from the general knowledge of the world, but he’s spent enough time with this particular person to know the difference between playful and serious mode.

And if Louis has so clearly figured out Harry’s feelings already and hasn’t rejected him for it, then he might have just taken a few accidental tumbles closer to falling in love after all.

And that’s more than a bit troublesome, because Louis couldn’t possibly feel the same way, and even if there were any sort of reality where he possibly could, it’s not as if a life of hidden touches and kisses would be ideal, anyway. So what does any of it even matter in the end?

“Don’t you have something new to teach me?” Harry grumbles as he attempts to take the spotlight off of himself. “Today we move on to swords, right?”

“Swords Day, indeed!” Louis claps his hands once, rubs them together like always before they begin a session, and that’s the end of that.

He demonstrates some basic footwork for the most harmless, defensive stances and they practice that with a wooden weapon for the first part of class.

The favored maid, Miss Alice, delivers them two bowls of hearty venison stew for lunch and Louis tells him about his father teaching him to hunt for the family in his preteen years, right before he passed away.

He tells Harry that his father must have known he was sick and kept it hidden very well, because none of them expected to wake up to him lying breathless in bed the next morning. He says that his youngest siblings weren’t even born yet, and his other sisters still had a bit of growing to do before they were ready to help out around the house, so for a while it was just him and his mum tending the cottage together, which is why he endlessly practiced his own skills to make sure that he’d be able to protect and provide for the family in his father’s absence.

Harry finds it to be quite a personal story and yet, Louis opens up so casually, chattering on through mouthfuls of food as if he’s not busy revealing key parts of his life and what’s made him the person he is today. Someone strong and capable; an effortless leader, seemingly unfazed by the world’s complicated parts always in motion around him.

It makes Harry want to open himself up as well, but he’s never had anyone to tell his story to before and he’s not quite sure how to form the words or even where to even begin. So for now, he absorbs this vital information about his friend to store away somewhere the next time he feels a hesitation to share anything too personal about himself.

The second part of the day is when Louis introduces the real swords.

“Far heavier than the wooden model,” Harry comments as he inspects the intricate rose carved into the handle of his own.

He’s held one before, though not with any professional supervision. Sometimes, when he’s restless, he’ll wander through the castle grounds until his eyes begin to droop. Sometimes that wandering has led him to the training arena, and sometimes his curiosity has led him to finger some of the weapons and try them out in his own hands.

“Exactly,” Louis shifts into his education mode as he explains, “It’s very important that you recognize that difference, because everything we’ve previously reviewed is going to seem more difficult with the weight of an actual sword in your hands. Some people think I’m mental for letting my students use one so early, but as you now know, I believe that jumping right in is the best way to learn anything.”

Harry nods to indicate his attention.

“So we’ll start slow, keeping you focused on blocking for now,” he explains, “Just follow my lead and respond accordingly.”

Maybe Louis’s critics are just a little bit more valid than he’d like to admit, because it doesn’t take long for Harry to slip up, accidentally swing his weapon too hard, and nick him in the bicep.

Louis hisses, pulling away to cradle the arm towards his body.

“Louis!” Harry shrieks, “Oh my God, I am so sorry!”

“It’s okay,” his laugh is soft and kind as ever, “It happens. That’s why I warned you to stay sharp.”

He starts undoing the hooks of his jerkin, then swipes his shirt off in one quick motion before the blood can soak into the entirety of it. Harry swallows as he takes in the sight of Louis’s bare chest, all the random scars from who knows what and then his allergies start to act up, making him all hot inside and dizzy in the head again.

“Could you bring my satchel?” Louis asks, nodding towards where it’s been set down on the table by the entrance. “Perfect time for a first aid lesson.”

Harry instinctively responds by turning to grab it for him, but as he’s reaching for the bag, his brain seems to kick back into action. He’s suddenly thought of the perfect way to open up to Louis in return, without having to say a single thing.

“Wait,” he dashes back to where Louis has sat himself on the floor to examine his wound, taking a knee next to him and reaching for his arm. “I can, um… May I?”

“Not without supplies,” Louis jokes. He’s surprisingly calm for someone who’s dripping blood from an open wound.

Harry just smiles and says, “I told you, I’ve got some tricks of my own.”

Louis raises a brow, but he does offer his arm out for Harry to take, curiosity successfully piqued.

He’s got quite a few scars there, some more faded than others, and one right above the bend in his elbow that looks like it was particularly deep. Harry tries to focus more on the open gash in the mid section of his bicep than giving a closer look to all the marks scattered along his torso, too.

“Uh, Prince Harry,” Louis says, “Not to rush you or anything, but it does need to be cleaned sooner rather than later.”

“Hush,” Harry reaches to pull a single braid from where it’s tucked on the side of his head. He quickly finds the end of it and starts unraveling, and he can see Louis’s eyes as they go right to where his fingers work.

“Not that I don’t love your hair and all, but I don’t think now is the time—”

This time, Harry hushes him with a single finger pressed to his lips. Louis’s eyes widen in intrigue as he reaches to wrap his hair around the bloody slash. One, two, three, four, five, six, until it’s fully encased in the strength of his brown locks.

“Sure, a hair wrapping would work if you’ve got nothing else on hand, but—”

“Louis! Just wait. I know what I’m doing,” Harry doesn’t mean for it to come out like a stubborn child pouting at their mother, but he has to focus all of his energy and attention while he sings to activate its magic.

It’s a tune that his mother used to sing to him as kid, although he can hardly remember the words anymore and he’s afraid to ask, out of fear of reminding his parents of the power his hair holds. All he’s held onto is a soothing repetition of a single line, which seems to work well enough when paired with his active visualization.

So he sings, and wills each note to activate the dormant as his hair begins to glow brighter with the melody. He closes his eyes as he projects his voice, hanging tight to the image of smooth skin where the blood used to flow. And in that moment it’s just him and his hair, filling him with the same healing light that he transfers into the wound.

_We’ll be alright_

_We’ll be alright_

_We’ll be alright_

_We’ll be alright_

A solid few minutes pass by before he quietly unravels his hair again once the magic has retreated, letting it hang loose against his face as he meets Louis’s eyes again. Louis’s jaw is hung open in shock, and Harry feels his chest clench at the sight of it. He hopes he hasn’t gone too far.

“Oh,” Louis breathes as he examines his skin where the gash used to be. And Harry waits a few more beats for his full reaction, but he only says, “Oh,” once more. He just keeps staring at his arm as his brain works to process what it just witnessed.

Harry remembers the first time his mother saw it, too. He was still young enough himself that it just seemed like a cool magic trick she did for him. It wasn’t until a few years later that he realized not everyone’s hair came equipped with musical healing magic.

“When I was little, I ate a flower,” Harry explains, hoping maybe Louis just might need a little vocal confirmation that he isn’t completely losing his mind. “My sister picked it for me, and I don’t know… I was just a boy. It looked good enough to eat. So I did it.”

“Kids eat dumb things sometimes,” Louis nods, but he’s still talking at his arm, so Harry just keeps going. He’s never seen Louis looked so spooked by anything before. Maybe he wasn’t even ready to see such a thing, and now Harry doesn’t even have a friend anymore.

“Exactly,” Harry agrees, “But this particular dumb thing turned out to be enchanted. We’ve never been able to figure out how or why, but my hair started growing, like, overnight, and when my parents tried to cut it, I became a monster. I mean, kicking, screaming, crying, biting. Anything to stop them from doing it. And I’d never behaved like that before, so they just left it alone.”

“But how did you know it would just… that song…?” Louis trails off, finally turning his head to look at Harry who’s still kneeling over him. “I mean, there’s not even a scar!” he exclaims, holding his arm up to Harry’s face as if he’s never seen the results of his own hair before.

Harry chuckles, “My mother used to sing that to me as a kid, whenever I was upset. One day, I scraped my knee and she sat me on her lap to clean the wound. She sang while she stroked my hair, and that’s when it started glowing, and the rest is history.”

“Enchanted flowers. Magical hair,” Louis mumbles under his breath as he stares off into the distance.

Harry gives him a weak smile, holding his breath in the hopes that Louis won’t run. Or maybe that he will. It’d probably save Harry a lot of trouble in the future. And in the present, even. Maybe some small subconscious part of him wanted to scare Louis away and that’s why he decided to show him that in the first place.

“I suppose we needn’t spend much time on first aid, then,” Louis finally says as he hoists himself back up to a stand. He doesn’t look at Harry as he goes to grab his sword from where they’d been dropped on the floor.

“Are you… alright?” Harry checks.

“Sure, yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Louis shrugs, still avoiding eye contact. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Harry says.

“Alright then,” Louis nods, “Grab your weapon. Try not to murder me with it.”

Harry snorts, tucking the loose strand of hair behind his ear as he follows his instructor’s lead.

The rest of class feels kind of off, though. And Louis doesn’t try to make him blush again.

*

Louis doesn’t show up for the next sesion, and Harry gets the distinct feeling that he’s avoiding the castle, because it’s the middle of the week and his only time off is weekends.

He lets it slide, though, thinking maybe he just needs some time to absorb things. Their last class felt like a lot happened, even beyond the hair healing. Louis danced around admitting he knows Harry has some kind of feelings for him, and it’s fucking weird that he wouldn’t be offended by that alone, but maybe he was more affected than he let on.

Then again, that didn’t stop him from telling Harry his life story, and things didn’t seem weird between them until after Harry healed him and told part of his own, so maybe it was just too much all at once.

It’s not as if he’d quit, though. After generations of his family passing on their skills to the royals, it wouldn’t make sense to break that tradition over one of those royals being a little bit different than the rest.

Okay, a lot different.

Still, Louis was a professional. And even though it had only been a couple weeks, Harry would like to think they’ve built a pretty solid friendship.

Then again, that could just be because he doesn’t have any other friends to base it off of.

It does nothing to quell his worries when Louis doesn’t show up the day after that, either.

“He’ll be back,” Gemma assures him, “People don’t turn down a job at the castle.”

“I scared him off, Gem. I know it,” Harry sighs, this time as he pulls a fresh baked spiced peach pie out of the brick oven in his own private kitchen, an old recipe he hasn’t touched in a while. “If he didn’t think I was a freak before, he definitely does now.”

Baking has always been calming for him, and in the past two days he’s made several other desserts as well, so there’s currently a whole array of sweets lining the worktops minus the creation he’s about to add to it.

“Some people like freaks,” Gemma says as she leans on her elbows and munches at an apple tart.

“So you’re agreeing that I am a freak,” Harry pouts while he places his pie on the windowsill to cool.

“I’m just saying that even if he does happen to think that, doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a bad thing,” she shrugs.

“It is to me,” he grumbles, “I don’t know why I even showed him that.”

“Sounds like you wanted to impress him,” she wiggles her brows.

“Well, it didn’t work!” Harry throws his arms in the air, “Fancying someone is so stupid.”

She chuckles this time, “You’ve just said a mouthful.”

“Is there someone you’ve liked before?” he suddenly wonders.

“Of course I have,” she says, “It’s not uncommon when you’re constantly meeting new people.”

“Lucky you,” he huffs, leaning on the worktop across from her.

“Hardly,” she rolls her eyes. “I just meant to comfort you. Once you take the crown, I’m sure you’ll meet someone else… perhaps a bit more suitable.”

But Harry doesn’t want to take the crown, and he certainly doesn’t want to fancy someone else if this is what it’s like. Worse, what if it happens to be another man, and what if that man doesn’t happen to be as warm and welcoming as Louis has been?

“Tell me about yours,” he deflects.

She deliberates for a moment, then admits, “Sir Michael.”

“Really?” Harry’s jaw drops, “But he’s so old!”

“I know,” she’s laughing at herself, “But he’s always been sweet to me. Remember when he used to watch over us?”

“I do,” Harry nods. Occasionally, when the King and Queen had to stay overnight somewhere, he’d be trusted to keep an eye on them. Only once they were a bit older, though. Never when they were toddlers, as men typically weren’t expected to be childcare givers, especially not the most treasured royal knights and advisors.

“Well, after you went to bed he’d take me out to look at the stars,” she sighs dreamily, “I’m sure he meant nothing by it, but to me it was everything. I used to dream about asking him to marry me when I was older.”

“I cannot imagine!” Harry is scandalized by the image, suddenly seeing his sister in a whole new light. Not in a bad way; he’d just never given much thought to romance itself, let alone for his own sister. It’s interesting to see her as someone who’s also been through the impossible torture of yearning for someone you can’t possibly have.

“I couldn’t anymore, either,” she chuckles, “I’ve certainly grown out of it, thank heavens.”

“You have always had a thing for the stars, though,” Harry recalls. “So it kind of makes sense why that would be so significant.”

“Like your thing for the sunsets,” she grins in agreement, “But that was just silly, childhood stuff. The first boy I ever really liked, the first boy who’s eyes held the stars for me, was Prince Malum of Etherea. Oh boy, were we in love.”

“In love?” Harry gawks.

“Oh yes, it was one of those Romeo and Juliet things. Dad would’ve had his head if he knew,” she’s all light-hearted smiles as she recalls it, so maybe it wasn’t as tragic as it sounds.

“Why didn’t I know?” Harry pouts. He thought they told each other everything. He certainly didn’t like to leave her out of any part of his life. If he ever found himself in love with someone, Gemma would be the first person he’d tell.

“To be honest? I kind of liked the secret of it all,” she shrugs. “Everything else about my life is so public. It was so refreshing to have this one thing about me that nobody knew. Felt like I was getting to be my own person for once.”

That, he can relate to. Fucking all he’s ever wanted in life is to feel like he truly owns some part of himself. Just one tiny bit that isn’t up for his father’s criticism or the general expectations of society. Maybe living a secret life wouldn’t be so bad in that sense.

“I suppose I understand that,” he nods, “Why didn’t you end up as the next Queen of Etherea, then? What happened?”

Harry remembers a few years ago when the royal family was invited to Ethera for King Malum’s coronation, and then again for his wedding. He only remembers it as one of the times that the castle felt eerily empty in their absence, because of course he wasn’t allowed to attend.

Her smile softens into something much less enthusiastic as she sighs this time.

“His parents had already arranged Queen Violet without his knowledge,” she says. “She’s beautiful, of course… and it would’ve never worked between us anyway, so I can’t be mad about it.”

“You’re beautiful, too,” Harry reminds her, “And you don’t know that it wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t even try.”

She looks at him in a more knowing and motherly way than his own mother ever has.

“You’ve always been so much braver than me,” she smiles.

*

There’s a knock at his door the next morning, Sir Michael calling him forth to meet Louis for training.

“You came back,” Harry breathes a sigh of relief he hadn’t known he’d been holding onto.

“Of course I did,” Louis smiles back, and oh, Harry feels his chest tighten along with it. It’s only been a couple days and yet it feels like a couple weeks since they’ve seen each other.

“People don’t turn down a job at the castle,” he parrots Gemma’s words from the day before.

Louis looks him right in the eyes when he says, “Can’t turn down a puppy face like that, more like.”

Harry feels his mouth scrunch up with his smile, but his face doesn’t warm this time. Just his heart.

Sir Michael clears his throat, bearing a look of pure confusion when Harry turns to him.

“Sorry, we should head down to the arena,” Harry nods, hoping with all his might that Sir Michael hadn’t interpreted that as anything more than what it was; a friend teasing a friend in good fun.

“I’m sorry for freaking you out with my hair,” Harry says once they’ve been left alone again.

“You did spook me, prince,” Louis admits as he digs around in his bag for something, “But not because of your hair, God no. You know I’ve got a thing for it.”

“I did not know that,” Harry blinks. Louis has a thing for his hair?

“I can’t imagine why not,” he chuckles as he produces a couple of dingy white ribbons from his satchel and tosses some towards Harry as well, “Does everyone allow you such time to constantly fawn and preen over it as I have?”

Harry considers the fact that Louis never complains if he needs a little extra time to finish his braids, or when he has to adjust it based on their present activity, or when Louis even takes it upon himself to tuck a loose lock behind Harry’s ear or a flower back into place.

The king would suck his teeth with impatience. The guards won’t outright complain, but their distaste is visible. Even Sir Michael doesn’t particularly like it, although he is a tiny bit more tolerant than the others.

“No, I suppose not,” he admits. “But if not for that, then why have you been absent?”

Louis purses his lips, carefully watching his own hands as they begin to wrap one of the ribbons around the palm of his hand. He nods towards Harry for him to do the same, and when Harry grabs his own he finds that it’s more of a cloth than a ribbon. He’s not exactly sure what it’s for, but he’s sure Louis will explain at some point.

“Family business,” Louis says, not offering more as he starts on his other hand.

“What was it?” Harry wonders.

Again, Louis hesitates until the cloth is secured around his palm.

“My mother was sick,” he finally says, “She’s mostly recovered, but it’s a full house, you know? Can’t very well go on without me.”

Oh. When Harry’s mother is sick, the king has someone fetch a doctor to watch over her. The castle functions as usual, because they have maids to cook and clean and tend to the gardens and the animals on any normal day, let alone if something happens to her. It hadn’t even occurred to Harry that with Louis’s six younger siblings and not a single maid to help out, his mother probably had her hands full while he was away.

“Do you take care of your sisters a lot?” Harry asks, “And your brother.”

“Lottie and Fizzy have been lucky to find work outside of the house, so they’re no trouble at all,” Louis says, “But the double set of twins are a handful, although the girls are old enough to help lessen the load.”

“Double twins?” Harry’s eyes widen.

“Yes,” Louis’s smile is soft and fond, “Daisy and Phoebe are the older pair, then Doris and Ernie the toddlers.”

Harry nods, trying to imagine. He’s struggling a bit with getting the cloth to stay on his palm, so Louis reaches for his hand to help.

“Like this,” he says, and Harry’s suddenly mesmerized by his fingers as they tuck the loose end into the wrapping that Harry had already laid for him. His touch makes Harry’s heart beat harder against its cage, and he finds himself wishing that Louis’s hands would stay for longer than they actually do.

When he’s finished, he nods to Harry’s other hand and says, “Now you.”

And Harry would do just about anything to make him proud, so he does his very best to wrap as quickly as he can, and to tuck and tie just like he watched Louis do with the other one.

When he’s done, he looks up to meet Louis’s eyes that are barely a foot away from his own, and that blue feels like a clear sky on a sunny day inside him, especially when the smile lines tug at their edges and bring summer to life.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Louis teases, and Harry comes up with a whole fucking list starting with _control myself around you_ , but he tucks that in the back of his mind along with all the other things he can’t possibly say to Louis’s face because words like _hanging_ and _life imprisonment_ shove their way into the spotlight before them.

There’s work to be done, anyway.

When they start hand to hand combat, he’s caught way off guard by how strong Louis is. Not that it hasn’t occurred to him that Louis is physically fit, especially with the image of his biceps being stored in the cabinets of Harry’s maybe-apparently homosexual brain, but to watch him in action is something else entirely.

He should be paying attention to what Louis is saying; why each motion is important and how to maintain the proper form to raise effectiveness and such, but Harry’s eyes just follow the flex of his arms and the clench of his fists and the rigidity of every precise motion more than he’d ever admit out loud.

It starts with demonstrations of defense poses, then offense poses, and when Harry manages to get the hang of that, they move on to more hands-on examples.

He tries his very hardest to tell himself it’s just his allergies acting up when Louis’s arm reaches to pull him in. When Louis twirls him around with zero effort to press both of their bodies together, back to chest, the swoop of his tummy is just another symptom he hasn’t researched yet. And that funny little twitch in his pants is somehow completely unrelated to the way Louis locks his arm around Harry’s neck to keep him close and immobile.

“I’m going to tighten my grip now,” Louis warns, and Harry swallows the lump in his throat and reminds himself again that it’s just a standard combat exercise, “Like I’m really trying to attack you. And I want you to escape.”

Harry nods, pressing his lips together when Louis does exactly what he just said he would, because Harry did not expect to have such a physical reaction to it, but God, it feels like his crotch is on fire.

Still, he shuts his eyes and recalls the proper technique. He takes a swift step to the side, thrusts his arm into Louis’s groin, not too hard, it’s just practice, but when Louis looks down at it, Harry elbows him into the face; again, just practice, which is why Louis responds by letting go for Harry to make his escape, just like he was taught.

“Hell yeah!” Louis shoots his arm into the air for a high five, and Harry lets the grin takeover his face.

Despite all of his sudden sexual hangups, he’s learning. He’s well aware that it might not go so perfectly if ever he needed to put this stuff to use, but it feels good to at least know what to do and be able to execute it accordingly if the time ever does come. He’s never done such a thing in his life, never even considered he might need to, and to share that accomplishment with someone he’s grown so fond of is everything.

They do a few more rounds of practice with other defense techniques until Louis warns him that he’s going to up the difficulty and see if Harry’s really capable of fighting against somebody who isn’t going to back down so easily.

And somewhere amidst having his ass handed to him in the form of palms to the face, more arms and hands around necks, and being fucking flipped over Louis’s shoulder and pinned to the ground underneath the hard weight of his body, sticky with the sweat of combat, the ache in his shorts begins to make itself known.

Louis notices, of course, he fucking notices. Harry gets pinned to the floor between Louis’s spread legs straddling his hips against the mat, Louis’s hand is tightened around his neck to keep him immobile, and he catches the silent flick of Louis’s eyes down to the front of his pants and then back up again.

He doesn’t say anything about it, but he also doesn’t make any deliberate movements to remove himself from the situation, either.

And Harry is busy trying to push out the mental images of all those romance novels with their soft skin and panting breaths and cries of ecstasy, but in that moment they all seem to squeeze themselves into every inch of space in his brain that ever existed.

Louis just says, “It’s only day one. You’re doing great so far. Let’s go again.”

Like he doesn’t even care. As if it’s fun for him or something, watching Harry work himself up over nothing but a couple of combat moves that Louis must have done a thousand times with a thousand other students before him. As if the fucking elephant in the room isn’t wedged right between the two of them.

Finally, Louis releases his grip and rolls off him, outstretching that very same hand as an offer to help him stand up, too.

And all Harry can do is take it as he stares in a haze of _what is wrong with me_ as he struggles to focus on the instructions floating from Louis’s mouth on the clouds of Harry’s brain.

“I want you to come at me this time,” Louis instructs, and Harry nods without a real thought to it because Louis could’ve asked him to slaughter someone in cold blood and Harry would’ve fallen to his knees and asked whom.

So this time it’s Harry that lunges forward to wrestle him into a headlock, and this time it’s Louis who responds. Only his move is to grab the arm around his neck and dig his ankle into Harry’s foot, which loosens his grip enough for Louis to flip him over onto his back.

And Harry’s body has apparently learned how to harness the adrenaline rush by swiping Louis’s feet out from under him, causing him to tumble forward. And Louis tries to wrestle himself on top of Harry again, but this time he wins, mimicking Louis’s compromising position from before as he straddles his own legs over Louis’s waist and pins his arms to the mat in victory.

Even though Louis is older, Harry is a bit taller and generally broader than him, so with a whole day’s repetition of proper techniques for overpowering someone, Louis is effectively trapped underneath him despite his trying to wiggle free.

And so is his cock.

Harry’s brows raise when he feels the distinct hardness poke against the back of his thigh. He looks Louis directly in the eyes, and Louis just stares back, inches below Harry’s face, his breath panting hot against Harry’s lips.

“It’s natural,” Louis defends himself. Harry wouldn’t have even dared to mention it at all, so the fact that he brought it up on his own opens the gates of discussion.

“Yeah?” Harry breathes, maybe a sigh of relief that there isn’t something seriously fucking wrong with him if it’s happening to Louis too. “Happens with all your students?”

Louis purses his lips and his eyes dart to the side for just a quick moment as he says, “Of course,” and then it’s back to just blue and green together.

Harry has spent enough time studying him over the past few weeks to recognize that twinkle in his eye, though. The same one he gets when Harry’s blushing becomes too obvious to ignore. The teasing, the entertainment.

“You’re either lying, or enjoying yourself way too much,” Harry calls him out.

Does it really happen all the time, or does it mean that Louis is finding himself unexpectedly aroused by all of this wrestling, too? Harry can’t even entertain that idea on his own, because it would inflate his brain with far too many ideas that are far too inappropriate to have in general, let alone on top of his incredibly attractive combat instructor. But it’s there. The thought is there.

“I’m…” Louis gulps, clears his throat. Blushes. Harry watches the gradual pinkening, then reddening of his cheeks and feels about ready to explode. For the first time ever, he made Louis blush. And it certainly wasn’t because he said something that made Louis feel good, unless he wants Harry to know that he’s lying, and this—the act of Harry keeping him pinned to the ground is just as exciting to him.

It’s not like he would say it, either. They can’t say it. Of course they can’t, unless they both have a secret death wish.

But maybe they could be secretive _together_ , if Louis is thinking about it too.

“I think it’s time to wrap this session up,” he deflects the accusation, “You’ve done well today, Prince Harry.”

Harry lingers on the idea that maybe Louis isn’t being honest with him because he doesn’t know what the fuck to make of any of this, either.

And if this weren’t the first time Harry’s ever experienced something like it, if he were more seasoned and wise to the ways of the world, if he had a single fucking clue what to do with himself when his body reacts to Louis’s in ways he didn’t even have all the words for, he might press the issue.

But it is. And he isn’t. And he doesn’t.

So instead he just says, “I’ve got the best teacher in all of Eroda, so I better be doing well,” as he stands up and offers a hand to help Louis do the same.

And Louis gives him a breathy chuckle as he says, “I’m outside of the jurisdiction, actually.”

“You are?” Harry leaps at the change of subject, desperately reaching for any sense of normalcy to diffuse the tension.

“Mm,” Louis acknowledges, “No-man’s land, between the borders of this kingdom or any other.”

“So who’s your monarch, then?” Harry wonders.

“No one,” Louis chuckles, “That’s the whole point.”

And then Harry’s mind isn’t racing because of Louis anymore, but because of the idea that there’s even a place that exists without rules, expectations, or fucking traditions. That there’s a place with more people like Louis, who don’t give a shit what’s proper and what’s not. That there’s a place where Harry could be free to be himself. And a place where they could possibly explore this attraction, where Harry wouldn’t be so paralyzed by the threat of death to do something about it.

Just the threat of rejection.

Things don’t quite feel normal as they’re chugging down the last of their water for the day, or the whole way up the several staircases that lead back to Harry’s room. Maybe it’s all in Harry’s head, but it seems like the more time he spends training with Louis, the more he’s left with to think about at the end of it.

And this time he doesn’t tell Gemma about what happened, because he can barely form the words himself.

But as he lays under the covers that night, restless at the ghost of Louis’s waist pressed against his own, he lets his mind wander to other things.

Things like being anchored to the floor underneath someone; maybe not Louis, maybe just anyone. He tries to imagine a female figure, but really it’s just the warmth of skin against skin, the pulse of heartbeats and the steam of breath against his cheeks. Which quickly becomes the more defined shape of biceps and triceps and fingers around necks and hips gyrating forward then back and repeating in quickening succession.

And somewhere amidst all those images, a pair of think pink lips surrounded by light stubble slips in, the hands start to feel a little too familiar, and then Harry’s blood is pulsing in his ears as he conjures up the gaze of the only shade of blue that matters anymore, watching as his fingers push the silk of his nightgown up to his thighs to wrap around the aching length under it.

And he knows Louis’s voice, so it’s not hard to imagine him saying, “You’re doing so well, Prince Harry,” just like he would in class, although it’s different here in Harry’s fantasy because it’s slow and sensual and it stirs something sinful within him.

Harry hears himself make a noise unlike anything before, somewhere between a whine and a moan, it just slips out on its own and that kind of makes him want to hear more.

As the press around his neck tightens in his head, he imagines how soft it would feel to dig his nails into the sinews of Louis’s shoulders as they hover above him in a way that’s not soft at all. He imagines the kind of noises Louis would make at that, if he would clench his teeth and hiss or maybe he would like it too, maybe it would drive him a little bit mental, maybe he’d want to mash their lips together and stick his tongue in Harry’s mouth as he held him down, maybe he’d whisper naughty things in between those smacking kisses.

Things like, “You look so pretty, Prince Harry,” and “Fucking amazing,” that eventually descend into little “yes”es and “oh God”s like the ones from the novels, until it’s just a series of breathy, moany “Harry”s against his ear, and it’s the imagined desperation in Louis’s tone that pushes Harry off a cliff into a thick white pool of shaky cries and stars behind his eyes.

*

It becomes a thing. A secret thing, of course, just between him and himself, but it’s a thing nonetheless.

Each time Louis deflects a swipe, every time he lands a hit, presses his palm against Harry’s throat, and especially when he pins both arms to the cushioned floor beneath them, it all collects into this weird, hot, naked fight fest in the back of Harry’s head for later.

The second night, Imagination Louis pushes his cock between Harry’s cheeks, entering him, like the novels describe. It’s not like he’s got any solid idea of how it would work between two men, but for fantasy’s sake he just imagines feeling full with the length of it and he’s got words like _sinking_ and _thrusting_ to work with. As the coil in his belly tightens to its limit, Louis uses the hand that’s not choking the air out of Harry’s lungs to smack him across the face, hard. And that’s what dissolves Harry into his endless bliss.

As he lays in bed to catch his breath, his brain buzzes around wondering what the hell is wrong with him that that’s what apparently turns him on, because the novels haven’t mentioned anything like it.

The next time, Fantasy Louis leaves bruises with his teeth and nails and hands, biting and scratching and smacking at nipples and hipbones and either kind of cheeks and Harry fucking loses it quicker than ever.

The more they spar during daylight hours, the more material Harry has to work with, and the harder he comes under the covers that night.

Perhaps the worst of it all is that he begins to fantasize about other things, too. When he’s spent all alone in his room, he starts to picture having a warm body to curl into afterward and all the fantasies of dirty words turn into fantasies of loving ones like the romance novels and old poetry collections he suddenly finds himself just as addicted to.

Because the novels wear themselves out, eventually. And the sex fantasies will do for now, but it’s also about the way the crinkles reach Louis’s eyes when he smiles, the way his whole face scrunches up with his laugh, and how Harry begins looking forward to seeing that happen every day. It’s about the fact that Louis listens when Harry talks, nevermind how much he has to talk about, and about how Louis’s presence becomes a comforting, safe place to retreat to, and the fact that even the locked door of his own bedroom has never been able to give that to him.

The poetry inspires Harry’s mind to run off with Fantasy Louis to a land of stupid, mushy, cheesy, borderline insane proclamations like, “All the stars in the sky couldn’t account for all the ways I love you,” and “You name it, Prince Harry, just say the words and I’ll do it for you,”

And all his stupid, mushy, cheesy, borderline insane day dreams and night dreams have Louis’s face in them, his voice, his endless ocean eyes.

Every time Louis says so much as “Good morning” or he compliments a dress or a set of nails, Harry’s mind fills with ideas of hand holding and tender forehead kisses or a thousand different images of weddings and babies and confessions of undying love.

 _Love_.

How does one know the difference between fancying somebody and actually being in love with them? In the novels they always call it love right from the start, but Harry would never be so foolish. Gemma’s already said that fancying someone feels different than loving them in ways that can’t be explained, but all Harry knows is that the longer he knows Louis, the more his heart fills every single day. And he doesn’t really know how to explain that, so maybe it’s foolish to think of it as anything else.

But besides all the yearning, which all feels so dreadfully one-sided anyway, what they have is absolutely nothing like the novels.

They’re friends.

They laugh together, they talk with each other, they lean on each other to an extent. Harry begins to feel like there isn’t a thing on Earth he couldn’t tell Louis. He knows about the weird magical hair, sure, but Harry even begins to open up about the complicated relationship with his parents. His father in particular. He admits that the welt from their first meeting was bestowed upon him by the king, and Louis shamelessly caresses the area in silent sympathy.

He knows all the inner workings of why Harry is the way he is, why he clings so tightly to all his feminine ways and just how deeply he dreads taking over the kingdom someday.

And that part of their friendship isn’t one-sided, because Louis shares with him, too. Of course he loves his family, but at some point he also admits that it’s nice to have some time away from them at work, even if it does wear him out by the end of the day. It couldn’t possibly compare to how worn his mum is after being home with the kids all day, and he always stresses the high level of respect he has for her.

He tells stories of what it’s like beyond the territory of any kingdom, where neighbors and friends stick together in their own little communities rather than one big land that follows a single leader, and Harry’s heart yearns for that just as much. Even though he knows he’ll never be able to see any of it from where he’s trapped inside the castle. And Louis knows all about that, too.

“I can’t even imagine what that’s been like for you,” he says, more than a few weeks into their training, when Harry finally feels comfortable enough to say it out loud to another human being.

“It’s not so bad, mostly,” Harry says, stroking the lacy pink fabric of his skirt as they sit together for a lunch break, munching on their bread and ham. “Most people are nice to me here, except father. And even he’s not a total demon… I just prefer to avoid him on days when I’m feeling particularly feminine.”

_And when I’m afraid he’s going to bring up the coronation again. And almost all other times, as well._

“That’s not how it should be, you know,” Louis says through a mouthful of food. “I love my mother without a single shred of doubt. And I loved my father, too. I’ve never felt like I had to hide myself from them. Can you say the same for your parents?”

It doesn’t take more than a second for Harry to know the answer.

“Mum’s not so bad,” he says instead, “I quite like her, actually. I just wish she would stick up for me… but even that’s not exactly her fault, because Eroda doesn’t give its women many rights to begin with, let alone the right to argue with a king.”

Louis purses his lips.

“You shouldn’t have to live that way,” he says, “None of you should, but obviously you’re my biggest concern.”

It hasn’t worn off, the way his heart cheers when Louis says things like that.

“Louis, I’m royalty,” Harry emphasizes in defense of what, he’s not even entirely sure at this point. “My future is set. I’ve never had to worry about a roof over my head or the food on my plate. Never had to work a day in my life, and I know there’s commoners who die early because of that very reason. If I get sick, I have the best medical care available. If there’s anything I want on the outside, I ask an advisor to fetch it for me. I’m really not someone deserving of sympathy.”

“But what does any of that matter if you can’t even live your life, Harry?” Louis fusses. “I may not ever know what it’s like to have someone wash my ass for me, but I’m happy. I have friends and family that I love and who love me back, and that’s what life should be about. Because for all you’ve been blessed with, who can you turn to when you feel lonely?”

“Gemma,” Harry says easily.

“And if something were to happen to her?” Louis wonders.

He’s never considered that before. Sure, it gets lonely, especially when she’s busy with her princess duties. But he’s still always known he can turn to her when something’s bothering him. He couldn’t imagine a life where she wasn’t there for him, but who would he turn to in that case?

“You?” Harry tilts his head with the inflection, because that’s who he’d want to turn to, but would Louis allow it?

Louis blinks, obviously caught off guard.

“I’m truly honored you feel that way,” he says as the corners of his mouth start to pull up into the slightest of smiles.

“Of course I do,” Harry says, because there are few things on Earth he enjoys more than making Louis smile, “You’re probably the only other person I can trust.”

“You _can_ trust me, Harry,” Louis nods, underlining it with a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder, “So if you ever need anything, when this is all said and done… please don’t hesitate to reach out. I’ll always love to hear from you.”

Harry blindly hadn’t considered that their time together might be coming to an end someday soon, but there’s really no ignoring it after that.

*

After eight weeks of training sessions, the king shows up on one Friday morning review.

They start with target practice, where Harry hits three out of four bullseye’s with his arrow and the king only gives a slight nod where Louis claps his resounding approval.

For the sword and combat demonstrations they bring a knight in for unbiased practice, and Harry is grateful because if his father were standing by to watch him physically lose himself in lust with Louis it would surely be the end of his life before it’s even gotten started.

But it actually goes better than even Harry expected. He’s able to defend quite masterfully with his weapon and even puts up a solid fight with his own hands, although he does end up being overpowered a few times before earning the upper hand. It gives him a weird sense of pride to show off all he’s learned, like returning all the praise Louis has given him in the form of pure proof that he’s an excellent teacher.

At the end of it all, Harry’s sweating and out of breath, but he looks over to find a beaming Louis on the sidelines, standing proudly next to a king who bears an actual smile on his face, which is something Harry can’t ever remember seeing directed towards him in all his years.

And even though it’s Louis’s shoulder that the king rests an approving hand on when he says, “You’ve done well, my boy,” Harry will have to take that as the best compliment he’s ever going to get.

Still, it isn’t until Harry’s alone with the king in his chambers that he realizes what’s going on.

“Now that your training is complete, I want to prepare you for what’s to come,” the king announces.

“What?” Harry asks, and his father obviously takes it as a question for him to continue, rather than the _what the fuck are you talking about_ that it was meant to be.

“I’ve brought in the next mentor to guide you with more formal practices, such as how to dress and present yourself in front of the public,” he says, “Again, myself and our predecessors have all been through this as well, so none of this should be taken personally.”

But Harry is already taking it personally, because he’s learned enough about coded language over the years to know that in order to be in the public eye, puffy pants and royal coats and a very distinct lack of dresses and flowers will be strongly enforced. It means that this is where all his ‘nonsense’ ends and the imprisonment worse than being trapped within the castle walls begins.

A new mentor being brought in also means that Louis is gone, probably not coming back, and he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

“I won’t comply,” Harry decides in the bubbling emotion of the moment.

The king just sighs as if it’s another one of Harry’s little tantrums, as if this doesn’t feel like the most pivotal moment of his life. As if it doesn’t feel like the world as he knew it is crashing down around him.

Louis is gone.

And now he has to start being a proper prince, otherwise who knows what happens.

“It isn’t up to you,” his father says, “The fact is that you are next in line for the throne. Now, the sooner you accept that and all that comes with it, the easier this will be for all involved.”

For all involved, like this is affecting him on even a fraction of the level it’s affecting Harry. Like it’s the king’s whole life he’s being forced to stifle, like he’s the one who could face lifetime consequences for the unforgivable crime of self expression.

“I don’t want the throne,” Harry begins to consider the no-man’s land beyond the royal’s jurisdiction, the only place he’d ever stand a chance at freedom. Louis’s offer to reach out echoes in his ears as he begs his father, “Please don’t force this on me.”

“Enough,” the king responds, voice filled with the air of finality, “I didn’t ask what you wanted, Harrison. This is who you are.”

Harry has no choice. No say. No voice. The crown is going to strip him of all the things that make him special and different and it’s not fucking fair and there’s not a single thing he can do about it.

He panic kicks in. There must be _something_ he can do about it.

“It isn’t!” He frets, motioning from the top of his braided head to the tip of his painted toes as he kicks off his boots to display every inch of him that his father can’t stand, “This is who I am. You can’t change me, _Harrison_ ,” he mimics the king’s tone, spitting the name right back at him like the slap across the face it feels to hear it.

“I can and I will,” the king remains so firm that Harry feels like screaming at the top of his lungs. “You are the firstborn son, meant to pass the royal legacy on to his son and so forth. So whether you like it or not, you will take this polish off your nails,” he grabs at Harry’s wrist now for emphasis, shoving his hand into his face as he says it, “You will cut your fucking hair, and you will put an end to all those frilly skirts or so help me God, I will burn every piece of clothing you own and make you watch the flames.”

Harry freezes in his utter shock. It’s always been an uphill battle with the king, but it’s only when he threatens cutting Harry’s hair that it fully hits him how far his father is willing to go to turn his wishes into reality. It aches so deeply that his reflexive response is to reach up and run his fingers through it, stroke a lock and pull it over his shoulder to clutch at his heart in protection.

He’d spend his entire life inside his own chambers if it meant he’d get to keep his hair. He’d sooner lose an arm than lose his hair.

“No,” he says, firm and clear. No room for negotiation.

“Excuse me?” The king booms.

“I said no! You’re not cutting my hair!” he shouts, “It means more to me than this kingdom ever could. It has power, it’s worth something, it’s a part of me, _dad_ ,” he says it like a dirty word to emphasize how thoroughly far from the truth it feels.

“Quite frankly, its abilities no longer matter to me,” the king says, “Sometimes sacrifices have to be made in the name of—

“Fuck the kingdom!” Harry spits, “Don’t you get it? I don’t care about this place! Why would you, as a king who’s supposed to have its best interest in mind, even want to put someone like that in charge? I’ll run this whole thing into the ground if you even think about touching me or my hair!”

The king drops Harry’s arm with force and grabs for a thick bundle of locks instead. And Harry knows it can withstand the way he yanks it forward to pull him in close, but it still hurts deep into his core.

“You should be honored to be next in line,” the king growls, sounding more like a threat than anything.

“You should be ashamed of what you’ve built,” Harry cries back, every ounce of fear in him replaced with the rage of his unwilling captivity boiling over, “Embarrassed by your complete willingness to estrange your own son in the name of tradition.”

“You are not fit to be a leader as a fucking woman,” the king hisses, shoves him backwards to send him tumbling down to his bum on the floor. Hard.

He towers above Harry as he points a stern finger into his face.

“That is not the legacy that the kings before us left behind. It is not the Eroda that my father entrusted me with, and I’ll be damned if I let you destroy it in my absence,” he says, closing the discussion entirely with, “Your etiquette sessions begin tomorrow at sunrise, so I suggest you take the evening to adjust yourself accordingly.”

Harry doesn’t have anything left to say. There’s nothing else he can say. He’d love to put all of Louis’s teachings to use in the form of a solid sock to the king’s jaw, but that wouldn’t solve anything either. So he’s just left to stew on his lack of power over his own life.

“Get him out of my sight,” the king turns away, waving a hand to command the nearby guard to lift Harry from his spot on the ground and guide him back to his own chambers where it’s left to settle in that Louis is gone, too.

The one shimmering beam of joy he had left in his life, and he won’t even get to see him again, until maybe years down the line when he’d finally be king and could request his presence. Who even knows what would become of their friendship by then.

Harry would sob himself to sleep that night, but he’s got a lot of preparation to do instead.

*

He’s always had a complicated relationship with his mother. Although things are beyond repair with his father, at least he knows how to define that: they’re simply cut from two different cloths. He’s silk and lace and his father is wool and linen and everyone knows the two hardly mix well together.

It’s different with the queen, because Harry knows she loves him exactly how he is. He’s always had a feeling that she doesn’t really understand why he is that way to begin with, and maybe never will, but she accepts him nonetheless.

The only issue between them is that the power dynamic between men and women prevents her from truly being there for him, and Her Majesty’s daily duties are what have led to her near constant absence in his life. After a certain age, all of his knowledge and comfort began to come from his sister, and that’s when the rift began to form. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but nonetheless there developed a bit of resentment towards his mother for not fighting harder for him.

Still, the bond between mother and son has never fully broken, so when she catches him sneaking out through the ground floor in the wee hours of the morning, he freezes as she assesses his clothing; the sack full of garments slung over his shoulder and the satchel of food across his body as he steadies the leash around one of their several guard dog’s harness.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. She looks him in the eyes and she just knows, like mothers often do. She knows that it’s been a long time coming. She knows that he hasn’t had it easy, knows that he’s not fit to rule their kingdom as father expects, and she understands the same conclusion he came to earlier that night; that there’s no happiness left for him here.

She could stop him if she wanted to. Harry has long since memorized the guard’s patrol paths and shift switches through the night, so he knows they’ll be back around in just a few minutes. She could hold him here until then, have then escort him back to his room. He holds his breath as their eyes lock onto one another’s, awaiting her next move.

And she offers a slight nod, a gesture of approval that releases the tightened coil in his chest.

“Harry, my sweet boy,” she smiles, her eyes glistening in the dwindling moonlight. She approaches him slowly and reaches a hand out to cradle his cheek in her palm, “I want nothing more than for you to find what you’re looking for.”

He blinks, taken aback by hearing it in such certain terms. Does he even know what it is that he’s looking for? Besides freedom from the prison of his royal obligations, this castle, the kingdom, the only family he’s ever known, what does a life without all of that actually hold for him? Will Louis even be happy to see him as he said, or was it a hollow offer that won’t be held up as soon as Harry’s actually standing on his doorstep, begging for a place to hide? Is Harry prepared to seek shelter elsewhere if that happens? Is he prepared to feed and bathe and work to support himself?

All he knows for sure is that he’s ready to find out.

She gently leads his head down to her level to plant a soft kiss on his forehead, and then presses hers against his. They both close their eyes and breathe in the moment.

It’s Harry who breaks their silent embrace, giving her one last look before tugging Clifford’s leash towards the looming woods beyond the castle walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those with thoughts to share, feel free to comment along the way!
> 
> Made [rebloggable](https://princesshalo.tumblr.com/post/620998662868369409/you-were-my-new-dream-by-me-princesshalo) for your convenience :) x


	2. Act Two.

He can’t believe he actually left. The overstuffed sack full of food and clothing on his back is a grand reminder of it, the ache of his feet an equally unignorable sign that he must be hours outside of Eroda by now.

He pushes branches aside, crunches leaves underneath his boots, follows Clifford the bloodhound as he sniffs his way forward along the narrowing dirt path, closer towards the scent of Louis that Harry hopes is what he was able to catch remnants of from the mats in the training room. It’s all that Harry had left of him to lead the dog his way.

The scenery is mostly all the same; just endless greenery for as far as the eye can see, but Harry finds himself kind of mesmerized by it all anyway. He’s seen the forest from the confines of the castle tower, knows the flower beds along the royal gardens like the back of his hand, remembers playing in the grass and dirt as a kid, but he’s never had the opportunity to get lost out here before. The sheer expanse of it and the sight of the first spots of daylight filtering down through the canopy of leaves is invigorating in that sense.

He has no idea where he’s headed and a part of him is even cursing himself for thinking he’d be able to just figure it out as he goes. Another part regrets not just crawling into Gemma’s room amidst his recklessness like he’d usually do. As he tries to dredge up a reason to keep pushing on, he begins to ruminate on what he’d be returning home to.

An absent mother, a hostile father, the entire future of a kingdom he’s never felt anything but miles away from even while living in the very center of it. Not that he’d seriously consider turning back as anything other than an anxiety induced urge to stick to what’s familiar, but if he did actually decide to act on it, he’d never be the same again.

He’s outgrown his tower, outgrown the castle, progressed to a point of power within himself where he knows he can’t just sit around and let life happen to him. So there’s really no other option but to push on into the unknown.

Clifford suddenly snaps him out of his trance by responding to the sound of voices from nearby, stiffening himself into a pointed barking mode.

“Who’s there?” Harry calls, mustering all his courage to sound like more of a threat than he probably is. He’s never actually had to fight anyone besides Louis and that guard in a completely controlled environment, but he hopes that all his skills will be able to come in handy if it comes to that.

“Depends who’s there!” Someone shouts back, followed by a bunch of rustling, before three figures step out of the brush and onto the path before him.

Harry freezes in his tracks, so thankfully Clifford’s barking is enough to keep them at bay.

“Miss, are you lost?” One of them tilts his head to the side; a taller, muscled type with a light coating of scruff around his face.

Harry stiffens. He’d chosen to wear a sky blue, free-flowing, comfy cotton number in the name of finding his freedom, but now he worries it might’ve been a rather bold choice to make his entrance into the world with.

No. The whole reason he left was to find somewhere he could be himself. If he hasn’t reached that place just yet, then he’ll keep looking until he does.

“Not a Miss,” Harry says, “But yes, I could use a bit of direction.”

“Holy sh… what am I looking at right now?” The guy blinks. Harry grits his teeth.

“Don’t be rude, Liam,” the thinner one with dark hair to the left nudges an elbow into his side.

“Looks like the Eroda symbol,” the third one, shorter and clean cut with lighter hair, nods to the fish insignia hanging from the collar on Clifford’s neck, “You some kind of knight?”

“Yes,” Harry says, because maybe that will deter them from getting physical. “I’m not looking for trouble, though.”

“Then what’s your business here?” The dark haired one asks.

Harry hesitates, struggling to think over the dog still tugging at his leash.

“Shh,” he soothes, “Down, Cliff. It’s alright.”

Clifford obeys, sitting between Harry and the strange men, though not without keeping his teeth bared.

“I’m looking for someone,” Harry says, “Surname Tomlinson. Do you know him?”

“Louis?” The smaller one perks up, “Sure, we do, he’s just—

“Shh, Niall! Come on!” The one they called Liam reprimands him.

“What? The man obviously knows him,” Niall shrugs.

“What do you want with him?” Liam asks towards Harry, crossing his arms over his chest in defense.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” Harry repeats. “He’s a friend. I was hoping he’d be able to help me.”

“You on the run or something?” The nameless one nods towards his clothes sack.

Oddly enough, Harry likes the sound of that. On the run. Such an encompassing term for what his current predicament is.

He simply nods, and they take a moment to huddle up and discuss something privately. Harry waits patiently, petting between Cliff’s ears to calm him, idly twisting the toe of his boot into the dirt.

“Alright,” the dark haired one announces when they’re done, “You seem innocent enough, so we’ll take you there.”

“Beware, we are armed,” Liam warns, motioning to the dagger strapped to the leather belt around his waist, “So don’t try any funny stuff.”

“My sincerest apologies ahead of time for any laughs I might cause,” Harry says, and the one they called Niall erupts into laughter. Nameless guy cracks a tiny smile, but Liam doesn’t falter at all.

“This way,” he motions for Harry to follow them down the path, so Harry tugs at Cliff’s leash to bring him along.

“I’m Harry, by the way,” he introduces himself. Something so simple as meeting some fairly friendly strangers in the woods has his blood pumping. For the first time in forever, he feels like he’s actually living. Going where the wind carries him and all that.

“Niall,” the cheery one beams, though Harry had already caught his name.

“Zayn,” dark haired guy says, pointing a thumb at the last of them, “And that’s Liam.”

“I must say it’s a relief to meet you all,” Harry says, “I’ve been wandering for hours.”

“Going the wrong way, too,” Niall says.

“What’s with your hair?” Liam asks, not making eye contact as he focuses on their trek ahead, “And why are you running around in a skirt?”

It was only a matter of time before one of them asked, so he’s glad to get it out of the way early.

“What’s with your beard?” Harry counters, feeling brave with the start of his new life.

“What a weird thing to say,” Liam scoffs, “A beard is normal. A man in a dress is not.”

“At least it compliments my nails though, right?” Harry sticks his hand out to show off the shimmery silver, fingers spread, because if he’s going to embrace himself out here, he’s gonna do it all or nothing.

Niall snorts back another little laugh, but Liam doesn’t look impressed.

“Liam,” Zayn cautions, “Leave him alone.”

“What?” Liam bristles, “I’ve never seen hair that long before, even on a girl. And the dress is just plain weird.”

“I know,” Harry interjects, “But frankly, I don’t care what you think.”

It feels so good to say it out loud. Even better to not have to worry about the consequences of their opinions, because the power his father held over him doesn’t transfer to these almost perfect strangers in the woods.

All three of them look back at him for a quick moment, and then Zayn nods.

“As it should be,” he affirms, and Niall nods along with him and Harry’s heart feels like a rainbow.

Liam doesn’t nod or react at all, but he also turns ahead forward again without any further questions, so that’s about as easy as it’s ever been.

“So how do you know Louis?” Niall is the one to change the subject, bless him.

“I, uh,” Harry hesitates to come up with something on the spot, “Worked with him at the castle.”

“I heard he’s got a gig training the prince,” Niall nods, “So weird. I wasn’t sure there even was a Prince of Eroda. No one’s ever seen the guy.”

“I have,” Harry says, “And of course, now Louis has.”

“He won’t say shit about it, though,” Niall goes on, “I think he signed a contract or something to keep it a secret.”

“Yep,” Harry rolls right along with it like second nature, “The king is pretty serious about keeping him out of sight.”

“Why is that?” Zayn wonders, “Any other kingdom can’t wait to parade around their next heir. Last anyone saw of Eroda’s, he was just a kid. Does he have some kind of deformity or something?”

“Is that what people think?” Harry pries.

“People think a lot of things,” Niall offers, “Some say he’s a hunchback, some say he just died, and then some say he died but the royals replaced him with another kid who looks nothing like the rest of them, which is why they keep him hidden. My money’s on inbred freak, though.”

Harry snorts a laugh at all of that.

“You could say he’s pretty freaky,” he smirks.

“Really? Is it gross? Can you describe it?” Niall asks.

“Unfortunately, my lips are sealed,” Harry pretends to lock his lips and toss the key over his shoulder, “But I can say that he’s definitely alive.”

“The reveal’s gonna be insane,” Niall says. “He’ll have to show up again someday, right?”

“Do you guys keep up with the happenings of many kingdoms?” Harry wonders. He’d imagined no-man’s land to be a place completely free of any kingdom influence, but maybe that was a bit silly. Especially if the Tomlinson clan is so well-respected within his own.

“Just the ones nearby,” Zayn says, as he points in four separate directions, “Eroda, Etherea, Meridia, Levithia.”

“I heard Meridia’s up to six princesses now, not a single prince!” Niall laughs.

“How stupid of them to not just appoint the eldest as queen instead,” Zayn rolls his eyes.

Harry blinks. Yes. How very stupid of them. It seems so obvious to these people that if you don’t have a suitable prince to take the crown, choose a princess.

But he knows better than anyone how tradition in royal families remains rigid despite the minor inconveniences of logic and common sense.

As they walk further, Harry’s able to learn a little bit about them. Niall’s a welder’s apprentice, Zayn has taken up the family tailor’s trade, and Liam the son of a swordsman. They’ve all grown up together along with the rest of their community friends, Louis included.

Harry is careful not to reveal too much about himself, just that he grew up around the royals and reached a point where he’d had enough of the way they ruled things; none of which is technically a lie.

And when they reach Louis it’s in the back field area of a cottage surrounded by more trees on every side. Harry wonders how they even knew which paths to take because it all just looks the same to him, but nonetheless, Louis looks up from where he’s busy chopping wood and waves to his friends.

“We’ve brought you another wayward soul,” Zayn announces as they approach him, and Harry’s heart crashes against the cage of his chest at the sight of him as if they hadn’t seen each other just a day ago.

“Prince Harry?” Louis’s jaw drops as they come into view. His eyes are widened in shock and three other pairs follow suit.

“ _You’re_ the fucking prince?” Liam sounds deeply offended.

“Oh shit,” Niall starts to chuckle.

Zayn just stares in wordless shock as Clifford barks at his found target.

“Hi, Lou,” Harry gives a sheepish smile as he leans down to calm his dog, petting between his ears to settle him again.

“What the fuck have you done?” Louis heaves the blade of his axe into the stump to safely abandon it as he closes the distance between them, looking all around and over his shoulder in frantic paranoia. “Did anyone follow you here?”

“He was alone when we found him,” Liam reports, then hisses to the other two, “I told you guys this was a bad idea.”

“We didn’t know he was a prince!” Niall objects. Zayn is still just staring at Harry in a way that makes him super uncomfortable.

“Fuck,” Louis hisses, grabbing Harry’s wrist to pull him back towards the path, “Harry, let’s go. We have to get you back before they come looking.”

“No!” Harry barks, planting his feet harder in place.

Louis blinks in silent shock.

“I’m not going back,” Harry says, “I left for a reason.”

“Well, you can’t stay here!” Louis freaks.

Harry swallows the lump in his throat. Some part of him was naive enough to believe that Louis might be happy to see him, but that seems so fucking silly all of a sudden.

“You said I could,” Harry reminds him, “You said if I needed anything… you said you’d be happy to hear from me.”

“Shit,” Louis breathes, “I mean, I know, I’m sorry. I meant it, truly, I did. Of course I’m happy to see you.”

He reaches out to lay a hand on Harry’s shoulder, but he’s still so visibly distracted.

“I just didn’t think you’d actually leave the castle, Harry! Do you realize how serious this is?” Louis frets. “Everyone must have noticed you’re gone by now, they’re gonna come looking…”

“Please,” Harry lowers his voice, batting his lashes, trying to seem as pathetic and helpless as possible despite his feeling stronger and more capable than ever. “Please, Lou, I can’t go back. He’s gonna make me cut my hair.”

It sounds so stupid out loud, but he knows Louis will understand. He’s the only other one who knows what it can do, and exactly how much it means to Harry. He must know it won’t end with the hair, either.

And of course Louis understands, because he instantly softens, sighing as he runs a hand through his own hair to grab at his scalp in obvious stress.

The three of his friends all groan in unison.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Liam rolls his eyes, “Louis, please tell me you did not fall in love with the fucking Prince of Eroda.”

Harry’s heart springs to life. He’s not a clue on earth as to how they came to that conclusion, or more notably, the fact that they’d even consider it a possibility and yet, it doesn’t seem to affect their opinion of him beyond the slight annoyance of the major inconvenience of falling for a royal as opposed to another man?

“Shut the fuck up,” Louis smacks Liam on the back of his head, apparently deciding to ignore Harry’s existence for the moment as they discuss, “I’m not. I just—how can I say no to that?”

“Easily!” Liam says, “You know they’re not going to just let him disappear.”

“But what reason would they have to suspect he’d be here?” Louis argues.

“Uh, you just finished your last session at the castle and he goes missing the very next day? What the fuck?” Liam argues back.

“So what? It’s not as if we were anything but proper teacher and student with each other. And I have a lot more students that haven’t gone missing,” Louis counters, “There’s absolutely no basis to assume he’d be here.”

“Not royalty,” Liam counter-counters. “You know they’re going to come looking. What if they search the house? What about your family? I won’t let you get them all killed over some silly fling.”

“It’s not a fling,” Louis hisses, “He’s a friend. And you know I wouldn’t risk their lives for anything.”

“Except by even considering this, you are!” Liam raises his voice.

“You don’t know what he’s been through, Li,” Louis sighs, “It’s no wonder he ran. He’s nearly had the life sucked out of him in there.”

“No fucking wonder is right! Does he look fit to be king like this?” Liam hisses.

“How dare you!” Louis spits back, “You don’t know the first thing about him, Liam. I thought you were better than that.”

“Clearly you’ve made up your mind already, but I’ll be having no part of it!” Liam throws his hands up to the air in defeat. He pushes his way past the other two to head towards the trail again, and they all watch him go.

Louis looks at Zayn and then Niall.

“If you want to follow him, I understand,” he says.

“Nah, I kinda like the guy,” Niall gives Harry a friendly nod over Louis’s shoulder, “And you know I live for the drama.”

Zayn’s still staring at Harry, and hasn’t said a thing until now.

“Liam’s gonna hate me for it, but I can’t let you do this alone,” he finally turns to rest a hand on Louis’s shoulder as they all nod to each other.

“Then he’ll stay here for now, and if the guards come looking…” Louis trails off.

“We can hide him at mine,” Niall confirms.

“Or mine. Possibly,” Zayn offers.

“So, welcome to the family, prince!” Niall grins, waving him over to join their little circle.

*

“You’ll have to meet the girls,” Louis says when they’re alone again, having sent the other two off after swearing them to secrecy.

“You mean I get to meet the girls?” Harry perks up.

Louis smiles. “We’ve housed people before, so they shouldn’t object to that, but as far as hiding who you are…”

Harry nods.

“Listen, Pr—Harry,” Louis locks their eyes to convey his grievity, “I’ll give my family the rundown, because they’re going to figure it out when the guards come looking for you anyway. But as for anyone else you might meet, you’re just Harry now, alright? You have no affiliation with Eroda anymore. Tell them you’re from the moon for all I care. The fact remains that you left because your parents don’t accept you as you are. Just stay as close to the truth as possible while leaving out all the royal stuff. Got it?”

“Your friends had no idea who I was until you blew my cover,” Harry reminds him.

Louis breathes a chuckle through his nose. “That’s right. You are pretty clever, huh?”

Harry beams. He still glows inside when Louis compliments him, and then he’s reminded of what Liam had said before.

“Why does Liam think you’re in love with me?” He asks, then watches as Louis goes red in the face himself. That is pretty fun now that he’s the one causing it instead of the other way around.

“Because I’m a softie,” Louis admits, looking briefly down at his own feet before meeting Harry’s eyes again, “And I sort of have a history…”

“A history of inviting men to live with you?” Harry bats his lashes again. Completely innocent.

He meant to say _men_ though. He’s feeling out how things are around here. If what Louis said about having no monarchy to uphold the set of rules that could get them executed in Eroda is true. If fancying a man out here is just normal and accepted like Harry imagined himself.

Louis hesitates, and Harry watches the bob of his throat as he swallows the lump. Just like Harry has done so many times back at the castle, before he even began to discover what he’s capable of.

“I know that things are very different in your kingdom,” Louis carefully dodges the question, “But at my place, we’re all a bit more open to… um, alternate lifestyles. Such as your clothing.”

_And romantic interests?_

“Isn’t that the point of no-man’s land?” Harry asks, “The freedom to be yourself without prosecution, right? The community that has each other’s backs no matter what? That’s what I came to be a part of.”

“Of course it should be,” Louis nods, “Which is why I was so disappointed in Liam’s reaction, of all people! He’s not usually one to judge, I swear. I think he’s got a bug up his ass about you being the prince more than anything.”

Harry didn’t leave his old life behind and come all the way out here to impress Louis’s friends, although he does enjoy knowing that Niall and Zayn are on his side. He came out here to be able to tell people with opinions like Liam’s to fuck off and still walk away with his head on his shoulders.

And to explore all the things he’d never be able to while confined to the kingdom. Including Louis.

“But you didn’t answer my question,” Harry drifts back to it as he nudges Louis’s shoulder, “About your history.”

“Purposely,” Louis says, “It’s a complicated one.”

“Complicated like eating a magical flower that gave you healing powers and made your hair grow to inhuman lengths, or complicated like being locked in a tower your whole life because you’re a man who prefers skirts over trousers?” Harry asks.

Louis snorts a laugh, letting his walls crumble just a bit. As if he’s remembered that Harry’s been a friend to him more than he’s ever been a royal.

“Complicated like having a habit of falling for any pretty face that flashes a smile your way, because you’re so desperate for male attention that you start to imagine a whole life with anyone who crosses your path for more than a day or two, however unreachable they may be,” Louis blurts it quicker than he usually speaks, and then tucks his lips into his mouth while he holds Harry’s gaze.

So he’s able to admit it. In a way that doesn’t feel nearly as condemning as the way Gemma had cautioned him before, but in fact feels like an invitation, a pair of arms welcoming him home with a hug that says _you are safe here_.

But he falls for everyone, apparently. So if he has felt anything like that towards Harry, it’s probably no different than the last.

“So I’m just some guy with a pretty face to you,” Harry realizes.

How foolish of him to have hoped that Louis wouldn’t have had a fancy or two or more. Maybe even loved somebody before. He’s nearly ten years Harry’s senior and he also hadn’t spent his life trapped within the walls of a single building, albeit a ridiculously large one. Of course he’s already figured himself out, of course he’s already experienced this kind of attraction.

“What? Absolutely not,” Louis refutes though, “You’re my friend, Harry.”

And that might sting just as much.

“Right, of course,” Harry swallows the betrayal in his throat at the word _friend_. It’s stupid. It’s silly. It’s naive. And yet he’s still so let down.

“You do have a pretty face,” Louis goes on, “But you also don’t need me to tell you that you’re more than just that.”

He could’ve turned Harry away, but he didn’t. He offered up his home because he said that if Harry ever needed anything to contact him, and he meant it. Because he is truly Harry’s friend, and that means he does care. It doesn’t have to be in the same way that Harry cares for him to still be grateful. Without Louis, he never would’ve had the courage to leave, let alone a safe place to go.

“Maybe not, but it sounds nice anyway,” Harry starts to crack a smile.

Louis pushes against his shoulder in that playful way he usually does. Harry would’ve missed that if he had to go the rest of his royal life without it.

“Thank you, Louis,” Harry says, reaching for Louis’s hand, blood rushing up to his own face now. “I don’t know that I would even be here right now if I never met you.”

Louis looks down between them to where Harry’s just laced their fingers together, and then back up to Harry’s eyes, and then back down to their hands, and then back to Harry’s eyes again, and he’s just so cute amidst his confusion that it pulls a laugh right out of Harry’s chest because he’s never felt so free and happy and home in all his life.

Louis smiles too, and the way he squeezes Harry’s hand says he understands the feeling.

*

“Gather round, ladies and gentleman!” Louis claps his hand upon their entrance to the house, hands still locked together in comfort. “Come meet our new roommate!”

“New roommate, new roommate, new roommate!” Two little toddlers come waddling to greet them at the backdoor, clapping their hands as they chant together in glee.

“Doris, Ernie, this is Harry,” he says, “And Harry, these are the little ones.”

“Harry, Harry, Harry!” Their chanting morphs into something else as they put their hands up for high fives.

So Harry smacks each of their tiny hands with his own.

“Well, aren’t you two just the cutest?” Harry coos.

“I’m the cutest!” Ernie giggles.

“No, me!” Doris pushes him lightly.

“We’re all the cutest,” one of another set of twin girls rolls their eyes as they enter the room, probably not more than a few years younger than Harry.

“Daisy, Phoebe,” Louis introduces the two, “This is Harry.”

“Hi, Harry,” they both wave.

“I really like your dress,” one of them looks him up and down.

“Ooh, and your nails!” the other one gushes, leaning forward for a closer look.

“Thank you, DaisyPhoebe,” Harry says it like one word, earning another pair of giggles.

“Daisy,” the one in the blue dress identifies herself.

“Phoebe,” the one in purple says.

“Fizzy and Lottie aren’t home just yet,” another voice enters the room, an older woman with high cheekbones and eyes just like Louis’s.

“The queen herself,” Louis presses his hands on his belly for a bow in her direction, just as he did when the two of them first met.

She rolls her eyes, but it’s affectionate. She stretches her arms out for a hug, waving Harry forward, “Come now, Harry, is it? We’re huggers.”

Harry smiles, gladly accepting the embrace, never having felt so welcomed in his life.

“Are you sure it’s alright for me to stay?” Harry asks into her arms around him, “I don’t even think Louis asked.”

“He didn’t,” she chuckles, “But of course it’s alright. We’re used to him bringing home strays.”

Harry wonders how many of them were men and if he fancied any of them, but he’ll tuck that away to ask Louis about later.

“Well, thank you dearly for having me,” Harry smiles when they end the embrace.

“Nonsense! The more the merrier,” she smiles back as she turns to wave him forward, “Let me show you around, bring your things.”

The crowd dissipates a bit, what with the two teenagers going off to do their own thing. The smaller twins though, stay to follow them all around the house.

It’s much smaller than what Harry’s used to, and yet it feels like he finally has all the space in the world now that he’s far away from the castle. He wishes he could’ve brought Gemma with him, but she told him as he packed his things to leave that although she’d miss the hell out of him, they both had their own stories to write and she always knew they’d have to part someday. She wished him nothing but the best of luck and it feels like he’s found it.

Louis’s mother actually has the audacity to apologize for the inconvenience at the lack of space when she says he’ll have to share Louis’s room, as if that isn’t one of the greatest sentences he’s ever heard. As if he could ever be anything but eternally grateful that she’d open her home to a perfect stranger just because her son had vouched for him.

“I’ll give you a minute to unpack,” she says as she stands in the doorway with Ernie in her arms while Doris tugs at her skirt, “The last of the bunch should be home soon, and you’re welcome to join us for supper whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you so much, Mama Tomlinson,” Harry says, feeling like a hollow shell of how much he actually means it.

“Ha! That’s a new one,” she chuckles, “Please, I beg you to call me Jay. Johannah, if you must. Anything else makes me feel like an elder.”

“Sorry,” he says, “Thank you to the ends of the earth, Miss Joannah.”

“I suppose that’s better,” she rolls her eyes, again, with nothing but endearment, “Hope to see you soon, dear!”

Harry lets go of the breath he’d been holding when she shuts the door.

He actually did it. He got out of the castle. He should be able to breathe a sigh of relief, and maybe some part of him has, but there’s also another, more lingering part that says it can’t possibly be that easy to fully escape the crown.

*

“Everything alright in here?” Louis pokes his head in some time later. Harry isn’t sure how long it’s been, because after setting his bag down he just laid out on the bed and that’s the last thing he remembers.

“Oh shit! Supper!” He springs up in bed, reaching his arms out for what he’s not sure, as he blinks himself into semi-consciousness.

“Relax,” Louis chuckles, closing the door softly behind him as he steps inside, “Supper’s over, everyone’s gone to bed.”

“No,” Harry whines as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, “I can’t disappoint your mother.”

“Harry, it’s fine,” he assures him, “We always give the newcomers some time to settle in. You’re not the first to miss supper for a nap.”

“How often do you do this?” Harry yawns, “Bring people into your home?”

Louis shrugs, “It’s not always me. Lottie’s been known to bring friends, and Fiz has done it once before too. We’ve become something of a community safe house for wanderers until they find their own footing.”

“Where do they usually go afterwards?” Harry wonders. He can’t think of anywhere else he’d be safer.

“Most of them move into the village nearby,” Louis says, “They get jobs, meet friends and lovers, find other places to live, they’re able to restart their lives.”

“How far is the village from here? Do you ever see them again?” He pries.

“Of course we keep in touch. The village is only about an hour’s walk away,” Louis says.

“So you can confirm… that they’re doing alright?” Harry asks.

Louis looks warmly over at him when he says, “I absolutely can.”

He doesn’t say that Harry could be one of them, but it’s suddenly easier for Harry to imagine that maybe he could. Maybe it won’t even be Louis that he ends up starting his life with, maybe he’ll meet someone new to fancy like Gemma said.

“And you’re sure it’s alright that I missed supper?” Harry checks again, “I feel so bad.”

“No need, I promise,” Louis holds a palm up to silence him before moving on, “If you’d like to clean off, there’s a wash tub out back. Mum left a cloth out for you to dry with.”

Harry nods, sliding his legs off the side off the mattress to stretch his arms awake.

“Do you remember which way?” Louis asks.

“I think so,” Harry nods again. In truth, it was all pretty simple in comparison to what he’s used to. He’d gotten lost in the castle many times when he was younger, but if he couldn’t find his way around such a quaint house he may as well pack it up and head back home because he didn’t stand a chance in the village alone.

And that’s exactly how he felt as he stared into the wash tub, which wasn’t a tub like he was used to at all. It was just a bucket, albeit a rather large one, that he’s only about eighty percent sure he’s meant to stand in as he dumps water on himself from the handheld bucket sat next to it.

He didn’t realize how accustomed he’s become to the luxurious life of a prince, though. He’d always felt like he was missing out on the rest of the world, so despite what bits he’s read of the working class life, it was always easy to put that stuff out of his head.

As he strips himself and steps in the tub, keeping his eyes on Clifford who’s tied up on the stone wall nearby, he lets just a few tears fall for his old life. He hadn’t even realized it would hit him this hard, didn’t think there’d be anything to mourn, but it was the unfamiliar accommodation and looming of the unknown stretched out into his future that seized the opportunity to engulf him now.

He didn’t know when he’d be able to see his sister again, yet there was already so much to tell her. He’d have to get a job at some point, as he realizes many of these people have been working since they were barely teenagers, but he’d never had a marketable skill his whole life.

And giving up the crown meant he’d have to adjust to doing everything for himself. His chambers used to clean itself, and that’s a ridiculous thought to have because he logically knew that the maids did it while he was out, but it was so easy to forget that it needed to be done by someone. Just like the cooking and the laundry and the shopping and the yard, it all had to be done by somebody, and that somebody was him now. And the Tomlinson family, for a while, at least. But eventually, he’d have to learn how to get by on his own.

It’s the worst bath he’s ever had in his life. It’s cold and difficult because he’s always had the luxury of lying down in a clawfoot tub with a faucet that runs hot and cold to adjust the warmth. He could even put soap in it for a nice cocoon of bubbles, something he realizes most would never experience in their whole lives. And he just gave it up like it was nothing.

Louis seems to pick up on his mood when he returns back to the room in his favorite silk robe. A personal comfort he brought along for this exact reason.

“Want to talk about it?” Louis prompts.

“I was… spoiled,” Harry says, still dabbing the towel along the bundles of wet hair that he drops to the floor.

Louis chuckles, waving Harry over and patting the edge of the bed for him to sit down.

“Did you think everyone lived like royalty beyond the castle walls?” Louis hums as he produces another dry cloth from the drawer of his bedside table to help pat Harry’s hair down with.

“No,” Harry says, “To be honest, I didn’t think anything at all.”

Louis nods as they work in silence for a moment. Harry once told him it’s a lot of fucking hair, but he hadn’t even realized exactly what a pain in the ass it could be until he suddenly couldn’t drape it out of his tower window to air dry in the breeze.

“What did you imagine when you considered the world outside?” Louis wonders.

“Just…” Harry thinks for a moment as he formulates the words to describe it, “I mostly imagined being myself. Maybe meeting more people who would accept me this way, but I don’t know if I actually believed that I would.”

“Lucky you, then,” Louis hums.

“I just wanted to experience life, you know?” Harry wanders through the world he’s built up in his head for all those years he wasn’t in it. “I want to go to the market, I want to wave to my neighbors, to attend festivals and weddings and parties. To explore the shores and forests and pick my own flowers from the fields.”

“Mm,” Louis nods, “We do have all those things, you know. You’ve met some of the people, and probably had enough of the forests for now.”

Harry cracks a smile.

“It’s been so freeing,” he says, “And I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“Well, the markets, neighbors, and festivals are all in town. And the shore isn’t far from here, either,” Louis considers, “I’m sure I could find you a field of flowers, too. If that would make you feel more fulfilled.”

“I would like all of that very much,” Harry nods, “I’ve never seen the ocean before.”

“Ever?” Louis is incredulous.

Harry shakes his head.

“I’ve read about it. And I think I saw a painting once or twice, in an old book or something,” he says, “But I’ve never been to it.”

“Alright, so, visit the ocean,” Louis nods, “Field of flowers… anything else you’d like to do, now that you can?”

His hands stop their motion as the first thing that pops into his head is a flash of lips pressed together.

“Harry?” Louis prompts as he continues his dabbing at heaps of damp hair.

“I…” he should just say it. Say it. It’s not impossible that Louis might want it too, if he has a habit. Harry’s a man. A pretty one, he knows it. And Louis likes pretty men. And Harry isn’t exactly sure what he likes beyond Louis, but he’s also never found anything he likes more than Louis, either.

 _I want to fall in love,_ is what he really wants to say. He wants someone to think about him the way he thinks about Louis. He wants to be held and kissed and told that he’s beautiful, and although he’d prefer it all to be with Louis, he might be open to anyone at this point.

“I’d like to kiss someone,” he blurts instead, starting up with his hair dabbing again because all of a sudden he can’t bear to look Louis in the eyes anymore. Where has all that confidence he found earlier gone off to?

Louis is quiet for a moment, and then far too lighthearted when he says, “It shouldn’t be hard to find someone up to the task.”

It’s like Harry can feel each tiny shard of his heart as it shatters into pieces.

“You must know I don’t mean just anybody,” he says anyway, because what the fuck does he have to lose?

He thought it was safe here. He thought Louis would teach him this, too, like he’s taught so much else. He’s the only teacher Harry wants.

“I do,” he sighs, and doesn’t offer anything else.

“Then what am I missing here?” Harry wonders. They’re both right there. Inches between them. It could be so easy.

“You’re so young, Harry,” Louis says.

“I’m eighteen,” Harry says.

“Exactly,” Louis agrees, “And you’ve seen so little outside your royal world. You barely know anything.”

“I know how I feel, Lou,” Harry says.

“Sure you do,” Louis says, but for the first time ever, it feels patronizing, like he doesn’t believe it himself. As if Harry doesn’t have enough worldly experience to know that Louis is practically all he’s thought about since they met.

“I do,” Harry emphasizes. “Do you?”

Louis stops what he’s doing to hold Harry’s gaze.

“I think it’s time for bed. You’ve been through a lot today,” Louis says as he drops the lock of hair still in his hands.

Harry sighs, deeper and sadder than ever as he looks back down to his lap. He’s absolutely not going to cry, because all that would do is reinforce Louis’s opinions about him being a child.

Again, he must sense that something is off, because he uses a single finger to tilt Harry’s chin up to lock their eyes again. He pushes a chunk of Harry’s hair behind his ear and presses his lips to Harry’s forehead and the world and everything inside of Harry grows so much softer with it.

“We’ll go to the shore tomorrow,” he says, “That, I can do for you, no problem.”

Harry nods, sprouting a small smile.

“Can we see if Niall and Zayn want to come?” He asks, “I’ve never had friends before. Besides you and my sister. That’s something else I’d like to do.”

“Have friends?” Louis asks, lifting a brow.

Harry nods more eagerly this time. For some reason, that seems to inspire distress, as Louis’s brows scrunch together.

“Of course,” he says anyway.

“Should we worry about the castle guards coming to find me?” Harry wonders.

“Are you prepared to fight for your freedom?” Louis asks, and that throws him for a loop. He doesn’t think he’s had enough training to be any match for a castle knight, but he’ll damn sure try with everything in him. He’s seen Louis in action before, but at this point he’s wondering if even he can be trusted to defend him from the army they might bring.

“I’d rather it not come to that,” Harry says.

“Better give it a few days for them to sweep the area, then,” Louis decides.

Harry nods in agreement.

“You understand that means we’ll have to keep you hidden for now, right?” Louis presses.

“Good thing I’m used to staying out of sight,” Harry says, making Louis chuckle lightly.

“Alright, then,” Louis sighs, this time more a tired sound than anything. “You get comfortable here. I’m going to fetch the extra blankets to make my bed on the floor.”

“What?” Harry startles again.

“You didn’t think me enough of a gentleman to share a bed with you and keep my hands to myself, did you?” Louis smirks a little to diffuse the tension.

Harry feels his cheeks pinken even as he asks, “Who said you’d have to?”

And Louis cackles this time, a bit like he’s gone hysterical at the situation as he leaves Harry alone with the tingle in his belly. It feels like ages since he’s imagined Louis’s hands on him in that way, although it couldn’t have been more than a few days since he pleasured himself to those thoughts. But now the possibility is dangling right in front of his fucking face, and he can’t do a thing about it because Louis just sees him as some stupid kid who can’t make rational decisions about his own love life.

And that’s not fair at all, because simply by leaving the castle on his own, Harry’s already shown that he deserves more credit than that.

He watches when Louis returns with a heap of blankets and begins layering them one over the other on the floor. He throws down a few pillows from the sofa in the family room on top of it, and then one last sheet to cover them. It looks even less comfortable than the single mattress he has on his bed frame, but to be honest, Harry’s still feeling a little too spoiled to offer to take that one instead.

“Goodnight, Prince Harry Then,” Louis whispers from the floor after the candle lights are blown out.

“Night, Just Louis,” Harry whispers back.

*

“Good morning,” a female voice greets Harry in the kitchen the next morning as he’s struggling to make apple pancakes with the unfamiliar stove.

He hadn’t slept much, considering the fact that he already napped through dinner and was partially on edge with thoughts of how wrong it felt that Louis wasn’t sleeping next to him, sprinkled with a bit of fear that the castle guards would burst down the door in the wee hours of the morning to have them all hanged for harboring the Lost Prince.

So, he got up before everyone else with the intent of having a breakfast surprise ready to greet them in lieu of missing supper the night before. Only it wasn’t going as well as he planned, because their appliances were far different than the fancy ones he was used to at the castle. Not to mention that he hadn’t had time to re-do his hair, so it just sat in a messy pile at his feet while he struggled to get a productive flame going.

“And to you,” he tries to muster something of a cheery smile back as he tears his eyes away from the sadly burnt piles of batter on the worktop before him to greet her, “Are you Charlotte or Felicite?”

She’s taller than the rest, with blonde hair past her shoulders, and it looks like she spends a lot of time in the sun because she’s much tanner than her family too.

“Lottie,” she smiles, nodding to where he’s looking distressed as she comes to join him, “Need some help?”

“Actually, yes,” he sighs in defeat, slouching his shoulders along with it. “I promise I’m good at this in my… back where I’m from. This stove is just new to me.”

“I get it,” she nods, “When you’re used to cooking with certain tools, it feels a bit strange to use anything else.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees.

“Here, let me,” she takes over then, reaching for the spoon to freshly whip the batter again before she pours out a large pancake onto the tray and notices, “Apple cinnamon?”

Harry takes a few steps back to give her some room, bends down to gather his pile of hair and drop it out of her way, too.

“Mhm,” he hums, “My speciality. Usually.”

She chuckles, sounding so very much like Louis in a way that warms his heart.

“You’re quite different than I expected,” she comments as she turns back to face him while they wait for it to cook.

“What did you expect?” Harry wonders.

“Well, the hair is a shock, for one,” she comments.

“Typical,” Harry shrugs.

“How on earth do you manage it all?” she asks.

“It’s usually done up down the back,” he says, “But I wanted a rinse after yesterday’s trip, and then went to bed like this, so now I’m afraid to brush it out.”

She snorts a chuckle at that.

“I think I would be, too. Even this,” she lifts a lock of her own from the ends, “Gets wild when I sleep on it.”

Harry shrugs.

“Beauty costs, I suppose,” he says.

“I’m also pleasantly surprised to see that you’re not a hunchback, from what Louis told me,” she grins.

“He said that?” Harry is aghast.

“No, but he did say you’re the Prince of Eroda,” she clarifies, “And everyone swears that he’s either a freak who lives in the basement or he doesn’t exist at all.”

“So I’ve heard,” Harry hums, “And yet, here I am, existing without a single deformity to identify myself.”

“He didn’t mention you were so pretty, though,” she goes on, “I’ve never seen a boy as pretty as you are.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, widening both of their smiles, “What else has he said about me, then?”

“Not much at all,” she says, “He’s kept you hidden well around here, too.”

“And then one day, I show up in your kitchen,” Harry chuckles.

“He did tell me last night that you don’t want to be a prince anymore,” she mentions, flipping the pancake onto a plate she’s set aside and starting another one, “Can I ask why that is?”

He just shrugs and asks, “If you’d spent your whole life locked inside a tower with people telling you what to do and who you’re supposed to be, do you think that would make you happy?”

She’s quiet for a moment as she must be imagining what he’s been through.

“Not so much,” she admits.

“I can’t imagine anyone would,” Harry agrees.

“But won’t you miss your family?” She wonders.

“Only my sister,” he sighs. He’d give anything to be able to talk to her right now.

“Your parents must have been awful for you to feel that way,” she notices.

“Not my mother, really,” he says, “She just wasn’t really a source of support for me. While my father had his own ways.”

“I can’t imagine,” she muses.

“Lucky you don’t have to, then,” he smiles.

Her odd line of questioning just feels like an honest attempt at getting to know him, and that means the world on its own. He can see why Louis speaks so highly of his family, as so far they’ve been nothing but lovely and welcoming.

He learns that Lottie is the person who does hair and makeup for photographers, and that Felicite is her apprentice. Although she does enjoy the work, she also has dreams of someday taking the photos herself, too. She learns about some of the things he used to bake back at the castle, and by the time everyone else wakes to join the two of them, they’re laughing with their mouths full over a shared pancake, sticky with fresh maple syrup that her sister gathered from the trees out back.

“Just what is going on here?” Louis stretches his arms out into a yawn as he enters the room.

“I’ve decided to replace you with my new best friend, Lottie,” Harry says, and she giggles as she stuffs another bite into her mouth.

“He’s going to teach me to bake the best peach pie you’ve ever tasted,” Lottie says, this time making Harry grin from ear to ear.

“Peaches, huh?” Louis comments as he goes to make himself a plate from the towering stack they’ve created together, “That’s almost a whole day’s trip from here.”

“We’ll go together!” They both shriek, drunk on the high of apple cinnamon and their own morning giggle fest.

“So glad to see you getting along so well,” Louis says, but it’s dripping with feigned sarcasm directed at their blossoming friendship.

“Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes!” Two little voices float down the hall and Harry locks eyes with Lottie.

“Twins are up,” she says, and for some reason it’s the funniest thing on Earth at the moment.

Despite everything, this place feels more like a home than his ever did.

*

It happens in the early afternoon that there’s a knock at the door, as Harry’s gathered in the family room with Louis, both sets of twins, and Jay. Each of them are working on a braid when the sound startles the group into silence, except Doris and Ernie who start their chanting.

“Knock, knock, knock!” Doris giggles, flapping her hands together in excitement.

“Who’s there, who’s there, who’s there!” Ernie claps back.

“Girls,” Jay looks over to Daisy and Phoebe, who’ve already sprung into action as they chase their siblings down the corridor with their tickle hands, Harry in tow, because they’ve all planned this out already.

Harry does what he was told, which is to hide in the trapdoor they’ve installed under the rug in their supply closet. It only leads to the basement, but the outdoor entrance to that has been reclaimed by the moss and vines of the earth, so it’s rather inconspicuous and probably rusted shut even if the guards did manage to notice it.

It also means that Harry can hear the whole conversation taking place above him with perfect clarity.

“Afternoon, Tomlinson clan,” it sounds like they’ve chosen Sir Michael to lead the search party, which could be either a really good thing or a really bad thing. Good, because if Harry did happen to be discovered, he might be able to sway him towards leaving Harry be. Bad, because of how close Sir Michael is to the King and Queen, so he might be just as resistant to hearing Harry out.

“Sir Michael, how good to see a friendly face,” Harry can hear the smile in Louis’s voice. “What brings you all the way out here today?”

“Terribly sorry to bother you all, but the prince has gone missing,” Sir Michael explains, “We’ve searched high and low in the kingdom to no avail, so we hoped you might be able to provide some insight, seeing as you’ve worked so closely the past few moons.”

“Prince Harrison is gone?” Louis feigns shock.

Harry absolutely cannot tell one way or another if Sir Michael is buying it or not.

“Unfortunately so,” he says, “He never said anything to you that might have indicated where he’d be?”

“Do you think he ran off on his own?” Louis asks, curious as if he were clueless.

“We’re considering it a possibility, though the king has reason to believe he’s being held captive,” Sir Michael explains.

“Held captive? By whom?” Louis presses.

“A neighboring kingdom, possibly,” Sir Michael says.

“This is awful news,” Louis frowns with his voice, “I’m afraid I can’t imagine where he might be, but he was quite the pleasure to have in class. Do send a memo if he’s found, would you?”

“I’ll keep you in mind, sire,” Sir Michael says, “And please keep in touch if you think of anything at all that might help bring him home.”

Harry swallows the lump in his throat. Even the mention of returning to Eroda sends a shiver of dread down to his toes.

“Of course, of course,” Louis says, “Oh, I hope he gets back safely.”

“Thank you, we’ll do our best to see to it that he does,” Sir Michael says his goodbye, and Harry can feel the entire house hold its breath as the footsteps of what must be a team of guards fades into the distance.

Still, Harry waits with his arms clenched to his chest as he imagines what this means for his future. How long will they have to be cautious until it’s safe to show his face? Is hiding even an option when he sticks out as much as he does, with his hair as big as another human being and the sack full of dresses he’d brought along with him? How stupid was he to think that escaping the crown would be as easy as just leaving the kingdom behind and never looking back?

“Harry,” Louis knocks on the floorboards before he opens the hatch. “They’re gone for now. You’re safe.”

He reaches a hand down to help pull him up, and Harry grabs the edge of the squared opening to hoist himself the rest of the way and dangle his legs over the side.

“Do you think he believed you?” Harry wonders.

“He didn’t seem suspicious, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they circled back at a later date,” Louis presses his lips into a tight line. “We’re lucky they didn’t ask to come in.”

Harry nods.

“I should go,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to risk your safety for me.”

“Nonsense!” Miss Joannah says, “It’s hardly a concern. I think Lou’s just being extra careful.”

“As we should be,” Louis says.

“But we know they’re not going to stop,” Harry frets. “I’m so stupid. Of course they won’t. I’m the only heir to the throne, it’s not as if they can have another baby now.”

“Shh, Harry,” Louis soothes, pulling Harry’s face against his chest to stroke his head. Harry counts the rapid beats of Louis’s heart in his ears.

“I mean it, I’ll stay with Zayn or Niall instead,” Harry says, “They offered. And there’s no way the guards would suspect me there. For all the crown knows, they’re just a couple of random townspeople.”

Louis and his mother share a silent look before she says, “It’s not safe to move you right now, while we know they’re still around.”

“Give it a few more days for them to reach the neighboring kingdoms, and if you still don’t feel safe, I’ll take you to Niall’s,” Louis says, and Harry nods.

*

“Can you believe we’re hanging out with the Lost Prince of Eroda?” Niall geeks out as the five of them make their way into the woods to hunt two days later.

Five, because apparently Zayn and Liam live together as _really good friends_ , and Liam wasn’t going to allow his _really good friend_ to risk his life for some royal brat without a careful eye to supervise, so he came along too.

Harry’s just happy to be around people who could possibly consider him a friend, and to realize that living in secrecy with a man could actually be a real possibility someday. He wonders how many people are out there living together as really good friends, and maybe it’s dangerous to think that way considering Louis refuses to see him as anything more than another pretty face it’d never work out with, but maybe Harry’s tired of telling himself what is and isn’t safe to think about.

Maybe the beautiful thing about life outside the castle walls, free of his royal chains, is that the possibilities are endless now. His future isn’t just; become king, wed a queen, rule the kingdom, have an heir, raise the next king, and die. There’s no telling what it could hold for him now, but he likes the idea that Louis could be a part of it in any sense.

“Niall, are you stupid?” Liam scoffs, “You’re gonna get us all executed with talk like that.”

“Sorry, it’s just so cool!” Niall goes on, “That this complete stranger with no affiliation to any of the nearby kingdoms would just happen to stumble upon us in the woods one day.”

“Someone muzzle him, please,” Zayn groans.

Harry laughs, but Louis is taking it seriously too.

“Really, Niall. There’s lives at risk,” he hisses.

“No there’s not,” Niall stiffens his hands by his side to indicate his Seriousness, “We’re just out with our normal friends to catch some game on a normal afternoon. Where’s the danger in that?”  
  
Niall chooses to stay with the two of them, while Zayn and Liam go off in another direction in the name of noise control and to increase the chances that one of them would get something.

It hasn’t been that long since Harry practiced with an arrow, and he used to be a pretty good shot for a newcomer, but apparently not good enough to hit a real live moving animal.

His first few arrows miss completely, which sends the doe dashing off deeper into the cover of the woods.

“No matter,” Louis says, “There’ll come another.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m ready for this,” Harry admits.

“What do you mean? Of course you are,” Louis says, “The best way to learn is to do it until you get good. You know that.”

“I mean I don’t think I’m ready to take an innocent animal’s life,” Harry says, lower this time, but still for them to hear.

“Are you ready to eat?” Niall snorts.

“Come on, Niall, it’s new to him,” Louis reminds him.

“Where do you think the venison for all your fancy castle meals came from?” Niall asks.

“I know what it is, and what it entails,” Harry defends himself, “I’ve just never been responsible for doing it myself.”

“It’s the circle of life,” Niall shrugs. “We’ve done it since we were kids. Father takes you out your first few times, then it’s up to you after that.”

“We’re always grateful,” Louis explains, actually focused on talking Harry through it, “I don’t believe in senseless killing. We hunt only what we need and thank the animal for giving its life for us.”

“Giving,” Niall rolls his eyes, but Harry does feel a little better knowing that. If this is what it means to survive the world as a regular person, then he’ll just have to adapt.

As the morning continues, Niall shoots a rabbit with shocking ease. But it’ll only be a single meal for his family, if that, so the group presses on. Louis must be thinking about all the mouths to feed in their home, but still he lets Harry shoot at every turkey and rabbit and deer they cross, missing his mark each time. It’s not like the family will starve without meat, but everyone prefers to have it as part of a meal, and Harry wants to make them proud by proving he has what it takes to contribute.

“Seems like Louis should’ve been fired,” Niall pokes some fun at Harry’s glaring lack of skill.

“Seems like Niall might do better hunting on his own,” Louis quips right back, earning a snort of laughter from his friend.

While they’re distracted with their banter, Harry’s busy honing in on the spot of tan fur he’s spotted through the leaves, maybe about twenty meters away. It’s hard to tell because all he can see is the patch of textured color against an otherwise green background. Regardless, he’s not leaving the woods empty handed, so he pulls his arrow back, breathes in to focus on his target, and lets it fly.

He watches at the buck hops out of the way, antlers suddenly visible in its hurried motion.

And he watches as his arrow lands on the skin of the person who had to have been readying his weapon from the other side of where the animal once stood.

“Fuck! Shit!” Liam curses as he drops to the ground in the distance. “Who just fucking shot me?”

“Harry!” Louis scolds him as they all rush through the bushes to reach their friend. “What did I teach you about making sure the area’s clear?”

“He was behind my target, Lou, I didn’t see him!” Harry defends himself.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Liam grumbles as he examines his wound, “Fucking Prince, never hunted a day in his life, of course he’d be incompetent.”

“Enough, Li,” Louis cautions. “Accidents happen.”

“I can take care of it,” Harry says, dropping to his knees as he begins to unravel a couple of his trusty side braids.

“As if I’d let you touch me after I’ve just been used for target practice!” Liam shouts.

Louis yanks the arrow out from his wound without warning, spraying a bit of Liam’s blood into both of their faces as he does. Liam shouts another curse into the sky, scaring off some birds from the trees above them.

“What the fuck, Lou!” Liam panics, swatting Louis’s hands away to cover the open gash with his filthy hands, “We’re nowhere near a healer’s hut, are you trying to kill me?”

While Liam’s busy shouting, Louis is silent in action mode as he takes the chunk of Harry’s loose hair and pushes Liam’s hands out of the way so he can wrap it around the gushing wound.

“Louis, what are you doing? We’ve got to stop the bleeding,” Harry can hear the panic in Zayn’s voice too, although he remains much calmer than anyone at the moment.

“Not to mention infection!” Liam rages, “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“Just trust me,” Louis says, tying a knot around Liam’s leg and looking expectantly over at Harry.

Despite Liam’s protests and struggling, Harry responds as if their minds are working as one, shutting his eyes per Louis’s silent command so he can focus on healing. He sings his activating song and blocks out everything else, until it’s just him and the wound and his hair and its magical glow. It does become easier to channel his energy once the boys have all shut up in the light of recovery, and still they remain stunned as the ritual ends and Louis begins to untie the wound again.

“What the fuck was that?” Niall is the one to break their silence.

“Look,” Louis says, and it’s like his voice is full of pride or something, as he reveals the flawless skin left underneath where Harry’s hair was wrapped.

Three pairs of eyes widen as they all lean in to get a better look at Liam’s leg.

Louis grins at Harry, his whole face gone vibrant and wide with pure joy as he holds his hand up for a high-five that Harry quickly returns. He looks back to the group just when Zayn sighs, “Oh thank fuck, you’re alright!” and he grabs Liam’s cheeks to pull him forth and smack a kiss right on his lips.

It’s the first time Harry’s ever seen a man kiss another man that way. He’s not sure he can even remember a time that his own father kissed him as a child. Of course mother had, countless times. And she’d still kiss his forehead now, and they’d both kiss Gemma’s as well.

But he’s not sure his father would have even kissed his forehead at any age. So he’s never seen a man’s lips on another man, let alone in a romantic context, outside of his own imagination, and that makes the whole moment feel completely pivotal.

It’s like a brightly painted sign reading _this could be you, it does happen in real life, and you can have it too_.

If he wanted to try it with Louis before, there’s nothing going to stop him now.

“I guess I can see why Louis would fight so hard for you,” Liam grumbles. Harry shakes his head back into reality to find that Liam’s looking him directly in the eyes and that gleam of resentment he’s had in them since they met has fizzled out. “Thanks.”

Harry smiles, feeling nothing but warmth inside and out.

*

  
“You were great out there today,” Harry beams as he’s watching Louis spread out the blankets for his bed that night, the glow of candlelight flickering between them.

“Me?” Louis asks, “You’re the one with the magic.”

“But you didn’t even flinch. Jumped right into action,” he says, “I don’t know that I would’ve been able to keep my cool with Liam shouting at me like that.”

“I feel the need to apologize on his behalf again,” Louis sighs. “I swear he’s a good man. Just fiercely protective.”

“I’m sure there’s something about him,” Harry nods, “You wouldn’t bother if there wasn’t.”

“You give me too much credit sometimes,” Louis chuckles awkwardly. For all the shit he talks about making Harry blush, he sure is quick to get bashful in the face of a genuine compliment.

“Well, _would you_ proudly keep the company of any truly despicable human being?” Harry prompts.

Louis shakes his head. “I have half a mind to kick his ass if he says one more rude thing to you.”

Harry chuckles, flattered that he’d even be willing to suggest such a thing.

“Let’s give him a little more time to warm up. Seems like we made progress,” Harry says, “We make a good team, you and I.”

Louis hesitates as he looks over, then his face cracks into a soft smile.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, “Literally, because there wouldn’t have even been a wound to begin with.”

Harry drops his jaw in feigned shock.

“I learned from the best!” He jokes, throwing a pillow at Louis face as they laugh together.

The silence melts warmly between them as Harry watches him toss the pillow into place for his head to rest.

“Is that comfortable?” Harry wonders, inspecting the stack of blankets from where he sits on the edge of the mattress.

“It’s not so bad,” Louis says.

“Your own bed might be better, though,” Harry suggests, looking him expectantly in the eyes.

“I’m sure you’re right, but it’s occupied for the time being,” Louis counters as he throws down the pillow at the top of his finished product.

“How long do you expect this to go on?” Harry presses.

“As long as you need,” Louis says, finally blowing out the candle on the bedside table.

“Can’t be good for your back,” Harry comments as he watches Louis fall down and settle in under his pile of covers.

“I’ll manage,” Louis breathes a laugh through his nose, “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Night,” Harry sighs.

It’s raining outside, and that becomes infinitely more obvious when the cottage falls dark and silent. Harry used to find the pattering of drops against his rooftop to be quite soothing, but things feel just a bit off here. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable, but this isn’t the bed he’s used to. It’s not the place he grew up in. Things are nice here, sure, but they’re still unpredictable.

Thunder crashes in the distance, and again, it’s not normally something that would strike fear into him, but here, things seem more palpable. He’d always felt untouchable in the castle, never even considered what it might be like to fear anything beyond the royal walls, but now that he’s out in the real world, danger’s never quite far enough away to let his guard completely down.

He must lie there for at least an hour. He counts several booms from the storm, shuts his eyes and tries to focus on counting his own breaths instead, but there’s always another sound to interrupt him. Out here, he can hear the frogs chirping when the rain calms. And some kind of bugs making a strange clicking sound nearby.

“Lou?” He whispers.

No answer, so he tries again, this time a notch louder.

“Louis?”

Nothing.

Harry takes a gulp to prepare himself as he slips his legs out of bed, pressing his feet against the cold floor. He looks down at Louis’s sleeping form, his face smushed into the pillow, his mouth hung slightly open in his lax slumber.

It’s like Harry’s heart lets out its own sigh. Louis is so beautiful, especially when he’s not even trying. It’s been a few days since Harry left the castle, and he only wants to kiss him more and more with every passing hour.

At least when Louis was his mentor, he could tell himself he never stood a chance. He told himself that he was a freak for even thinking like that, that any normal man would hope for a woman to hold close, and Louis was no different. He told himself that Louis probably didn’t even spare him a second thought as soon as he stepped beyond the Eroda territory. And that after their training was complete, Louis would be on his way to live the entire rest of his life without Harry in it, and eventually, the thought of that would be okay for Harry too.

But it turns out that there could be a real possibility, and Louis is something of a semi permanent figure in his life now, so his smile isn’t going away and his eyes aren’t going away and his lips aren’t fucking going away.

Harry uses his tangerine toes to lightly push the duvet on the floor back just a little bit. When Louis doesn’t stir, he kicks at it again, and again, until it’s flipped over enough for Harry to slither his way underneath without much disturbance.

Or so he thought.

“Do you think you’re subtle?” Louis asks with a voice that’s just a little bit raspy from sleep, but sounding coherent enough that he must have been aware for longer than he’d let on. And he didn’t stop Harry from lying down next to him to begin with.

“I did,” Harry whispers, heart pounding in his ears.

“Mm,” Louis mumbles, keeping his eyes shut as he rolls over and says, “Go back to your bed.”

Harry frowns.

“But I’m already comfortable here,” he says.

“Not possible,” Louis counters.

“You’re right. This floor is shit,” Harry says, “But I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” Louis rolls over again, this time his eyes are cracked open just enough for the blues to cut through the dark like polished sapphire.

“The storm,” Harry lies.

“Oh, bollocks,” Louis rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

“The guards, then,” Harry tries, “I’m worried they’ll come for me in the night.”

“In the middle of a storm?” Louis teases.

“We don’t yet know what lengths they’ll go to,” Harry says.

Louis pauses for a moment, and Harry watches his eyes as they scan down Harry’s face, the form of his body under the covers, and then Louis’s tongue slides out over his bottom lip when their eyes meet again.

“Consequences would be far more dire if they were to find you with me like this,” Louis holds his gaze.

“I can only hope my end would be quick and painless,” Harry whispers.

“What?” Louis nearly gasps, “Don’t say that. You should hope not to die at all.”

“I mean it, though,” Harry turns his head to look up at the beams and boards in the ceiling when he admits, “I’d rather be hanged than rule that kingdom as my father wants me to. I’d rather have my head off than be forced to be somebody I’m not.”

“No. Not you,” Louis reaches under the covers to drape an arm over Harry’s bare chest in comfort, and that feels like he might burst into actual flames. “I won’t let them.”

His eyelids begin their drooping again, and despite the floor flattened harshly against Harry’s back, it’s the coziest he’s ever been. He thinks his heart must have invented some new form of air travel, because it feels like it’s completely left his body.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Louis mumbles again after a few minutes.

“Well, I’m definitely not going anywhere now,” Harry says it like a joke as he gives Louis’s arm just a little budge, but then he scoots in closer, enough that he can feel Louis’s breath against the side of his face.

Again, Louis goes quiet. The rain is still falling outdoors, and Harry can’t seem to distinguish the roar of thunder from the rush of his blood anymore.

“This is quite nice,” Louis whispers this time, sounding like he’s drifting off again. Harry might’ve missed it if not for Louis’s lips being directly next to his ear.

He swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth and hopes Louis can’t smell the sweat on him because it feels like he’s pouring buckets at this point. Louis’s arm is on his naked skin and he smells like sandalwood and something unique to him only, and he’s just admitted that it’s nice that Harry snuck into his bed for them to almost sort of cuddle like this and Harry might die. He just might give himself a stroke.

Somehow, it feels like just a few minutes and also a few hours later when Louis starts snoring again. It’s just a tiny thing, more of a heavy breath than an actual snore, but Harry figures that means it’s safe because there’s no way he’s still awake.

Harry turns his head to the side and Louis’s perfect pink lips are right there, so he just studies them for a while. Maybe it’s creepy, but no one ever has to know. Louis has a few little freckles on the tip of his nose, so Harry studies those too. And the rise of his cheekbones, and the length of his lashes, and the swoosh of his hair across his forehead.

The _I love you_ thought crawls its way up from the pit of his stomach to the tip of his tongue, until it feels like it might burst out on its own unless he says something, anything.

So he just whispers, “Goodnight, Lou,” and then he presses his lips shut and wills himself to reign it in.

And Louis stops his snoring for just a moment to whisper back, “Night, Harry.”

And he leans in to peck a quick kiss on Harry’s cheek.

And Harry doesn’t get much sleep after that, either.

*

Another week passes, and the guards haven’t returned. Niall, being the little gossip that he is, has kept asking around the village for any news of their presence. And as of the past few days, the townspeople haven’t been able to give him any new information.

They did however, find the time to decorate with Missing Prince Posters stuck to pillars and bulletin boards around town, so Niall saved one to bring along for some show and tell on their trip down to the beach one day, and that’s how they end up discovering that the king had an artist render an image of the son he always wished he had rather than the one that he’d actually been cursed with.

“This looks nothing like me,” Harry almost cackles at the idiocy of it. How could his father hope to find his precious heir if he was so unwilling to even show a real image of who they’re looking for?

The face in the picture is much more rugged than Harry could ever hope to be. His jaw is wide, cheeks chiseled, a bit of scruff around his chin and upper lip. And he has short hair. Not even reaching his ears, it’s just a coating of darker waves that swoop around the back of his head, gently mussed on top and in the front.

“At least they managed to get the texture right, I suppose,” he says, touching a finger to his hair in the drawing.

“Imagine if you cut it off and suddenly grew a beard and became a muscle man?” Niall snorts.

“The hair doesn’t look bad,” Zayn comments, “But who is this person they’ve drawn over your face?”

“This is disgusting,” Louis scrunches his nose up in discomfort. “The nerve of him. Does he even care if you make it back alive?”

“It feels like a threat,” Harry agrees, still staring at the paper he’s held out in front of him. “Like, the castle guards obviously know who they’re really looking for. And if they find me…”

He crumples it up, unable to continue looking into the eyes of the alien his father has designed as Eroda’s next king. He tucks it into his pocket along with that sinking feeling in his gut because it’s a beautiful day with his friends and Harry will not let his father’s astounding level of ignorance ruin it.

“At least you can feel a bit safer being out in public,” Liam says, “I doubt anyone will recognize you if that’s who they’re looking for.”

“Harry, do you hear that?” Louis changes the subject, holding a hand out for them all to pause in their tracks. Harry can only assume he’s referring to the faded whooshing sound in the distance, so he nods, brows scrunching together in confusion. “It’s the waves. The shore is just a little further that way.”

Harry beams, not waiting for any further direction as he takes off running down the path where Louis pointed. He hears a faint “Has he never been to the beach before?” followed by Louis’s “He’s not done a lot of things, unfortunately,” but the rest of their conversation is drowned out when the waves begin to crash louder against the sand as it comes into view.

Harry doesn’t stop running until his feet meet the water. It’s colder than he expected, but between the splash of it against his ankles, the softness of his soles sinking into the sand, the briny, salty smell of the sea in his nostrils, and the breeze tickling his skin, it’s like the whole world fades away. It’s just Harry and the grand expanse of the ocean as he lets this brilliant new mix of peace and thrill swirl together within him.

He’s not sure how long he spends standing there alone, alternating between staring out onto the horizon and admiring the strange kind of leaves on the trees out here, wiggling his toes in the sand, bending down to feel the water slide between his fingers, and examining the little bits of things that wash up in the water. Sharp little pieces of shells and other ocean creatures, probably, sharing the sand and waves with smooth little pebbles from the sea floor.

It’s not unwelcome when Louis comes to join him, though.

“Is it everything you dreamed it would be?” Louis asks, looking down at Harry’s from where he’s sat on the ground, right where the earth meets the water. The shape of Louis’s head eclipses the sun so it looks like he’s got a golden aura.

“Far better,” Harry beams up at him. “I never could’ve imagined all this.”

He holds up a handful of mysterious ocean offerings to display, and that inspires Louis to laugh as he sits down in the wet sand next to him.

“Very impressive,” Louis says. “I’m surprised I don’t get down here more often, for how close it is.”

“Shame on you,” Harry says, “I’m about to build my new home on the rocks over there.”

He nods off to the side, all the way down the curve of the shore, where he can see a stretch of boulders protruding out into the ocean. He meant to go explore it at some point, but he ended up becoming mesmerized by all that there was to take in just the little patch he was introduced to.

As if Louis has read his mind, he asks with a grin, “Wanna go check it out?”

“Absolutely,” Harry releases the shell medley back into the sea, then hops up to his feet again. He brushes himself clean of the excess sand stuck to his bum, and then holds a hand down to help Louis up, too.

“Last one there cleans out the rain gutters!” He shouts, dashing off towards the formation for a head start before Louis’s brain can catch up.

One of the things he’s found since having the space to run freely is that he absolutely loves it. He’s developed a habit of running in circles around the backyard while Louis is off at work, because once the daily chores are taken care of, there’s little else to do to pass the time. Not like in the castle where, despite the lack of household tasks, Harry could fill his days with all his expensive hobbies like painting and sewing and embroidery.

Out here, it’s not as if the Tomlinsons lived like peasants; they were actually quite well off after Louis’s best paying gig at the castle had completed, but Harry’s hobbies have dwindled to either reading or baking now. And they don’t have even a fraction of as many books, cooking ingredients are scarce seeing as they all have to be gathered by hand or paid for in town, and Harry quickly found that the prices of fabric and string are far beyond what’s worth it if not to make a profit.

Zayn had offered him an apprenticeship at the Malik’s tailor shop once things have blown over at the castle and there was less of a risk for him to be found, but who knew how long that could take?

For now, there was yard and house work to be done, and when Harry’d finished up all his duties, he liked to spend his time outside. Sometimes the children would join him to play a game in the yard until the toddlers tired themselves out. Most of the time, he’d just run until his muscles ached. It felt a bit like he imagined flying would. The sense of freedom that it brought was like nothing that could ever be reached in the castle.

Running on the beach, however, was quite a bit more difficult. His legs felt tired almost instantly from the sheer amount of effort it took to unstick them from the sand with each stride. He knew he wasn’t going nearly as fast as he could in the yard, especially because Louis wasn’t very far behind. Nonetheless, they made it a decent distance down the shore before Harry’s feet stumbled out from under him, sending him crashing forward to splash messily into the wet sand and water.

Louis tries to skid to a stop, but ends up tripping over him instead. It’s almost comical the way his hands shoot out in front to catch himself on the sand. And then his laughter takes over, and his arms give out anyway.

They both just lay there laughing for a bit as the waves soak their shorts and skin. And hair, _ugh_ , Harry’s starting to grow tired of how often it needs to be washed out here.

Finally, Louis gets up and offers a hand out to Harry this time.

“Call it a tie?” He prompts as they both brush themselves off again.

“The gutters still need to be cleaned, though,” Harry reminds him as he dusts as much sand as he can from his braid, wrings it out a few times to lighten the load.

“We’ll do it together, since we’re both losers,” Louis suggests, and then they shake on it.

The thing about this shake is that Louis doesn’t let go. He just drops his hand to his side with Harry’s still clutched in it, and then they continue walk to rest of the way towards the jetty, like Harry’s heart isn’t throwing a fucking parade composed of only drums in his ears.

“So,” Louis starts while the sun beats down and the tiny waves break against their ankles. “Can I ask what exactly made you leave the castle? The curiosity is eating me alive.”

If he’s being honest with himself, a huge part of it was probably Louis.

Louis gave him something to look forward to every day. He gave him hope, a glimpse into the outside world, the confidence to make him believe he was capable of actually doing it. He gave Harry a taste of romance, however unreciprocated. He gave him the idea of a whole different path that he’d always considered nothing more than a distant possibility until Louis brought it to him on a silver platter and said _you can have it if you just reach for it, that’s all you have to do is try._

But he can’t say any of that to Louis’s face.

So instead he says the thing that scared him into taking the leap, “I had an argument with the king.”

“Did he hurt you?” Louis asks immediately, probably remembering the welt on his cheek that softened their first meeting.

“He pulled my hair pretty hard,” Harry sighs as he recalls his depressing attempt to stand his ground in the face of his father’s rage. “Jerked me around a bit. Threatened to burn my dresses and cut it all off I don’t.”

“You don’t fucking deserve any of that,” Louis curses, “Not that it’s your only value, but does he even realize how you could benefit his army, let alone a whole kingdom?”

“He must have considered it at least,” Harry shrugs, “I just don’t think he cares. At the end of the day, he still doesn’t find it fit for a king.”

“That’s mental,” Louis huffs.

“It’s more about the way I present myself, too,” Harry goes on, “You saw what I’d look like if he had his way.”

He purses his lips and gives Harry’s hand a squeeze.

“I don’t think you’ve got the bone structure for that,” Louis teases, making Harry push against his shoulder with a laugh.

“I always knew I was next in line for the throne, obviously,” Harry goes off on his tangent, “But I guess I figured since my father didn’t approve of me at all, he wouldn’t approve of me as a leader, either. I just put it out of my mind and hoped he’d end up appointing Gemma instead.”

Louis nods, understanding, “So when he called me in to train you…”

“You’ve been nothing but a blessing in my life,” Harry acknowledges, “But yes, I suppose that’s when it began to sink in. All my life I’ve been allowed to do what I want, so long as it was within the castle walls. His opinion didn’t really matter until he tried forcing me to abide by it.”

“It was too much, too soon,” Louis agrees, “Do you think if he’d been prepping you for all those years, you’d have been more receptive?”

“Probably not,” Harry chuckles at himself, “Not with the way he runs things.”

“So do you have any regrets?” Louis wonders. “About leaving, I mean. Now that you’ve been out for a few weeks, have it begun to feel like you’ve made a horrible mistake?”

“I miss Gemma every day,” he sighs. “Of course I adore you all, but she was my person for so long. I’ve been writing letters to her that I can’t even send.”

“Like journaling?” Louis wonders.

“I suppose. It doesn’t compare to a conversation, though,” he says.

“You know you can always talk to me, right?” Louis prompts with another squeeze of his hand. As if to remind Harry that they’re still attached. As if he’d even need a reminder.

“Sure, about some things,” he nods, “But if I wanted to tell you that I think I’m in love, what would you have to say?”

“I—what?” Louis stutters, “With whom?”

Harry just holds his stare while his brain screams with the force of all the beach winds to ever blow the sand between them. Louis must at least have an idea, because he eventually shuts his mouth and Harry watches the swallow of his throat as he turns his attention to something that’s suddenly become beyond fascinating at his feet.

“Exactly,” Harry says, feeling his throat clench, “There’s some things that only she’d know how to handle. And you certainly wouldn’t understand the things I miss about castle life, either.”

“I don’t know the first thing about being pampered,” Louis agrees, latching quickly onto the change of subject, “But I’d still listen to you moan about the perils of peasantry.”

Harry breathes a soft laugh through his nose.

“It’s inconsequential. I’m happier here, really,” he smiles, squeezing Louis’s hand in return. “Leaving was the best thing I’ve ever done with my life.”

“I’m so relieved to hear it,” Louis says, “I’ve been worried that it might have been me who corrupted you somehow.”

“Oh, you did, though,” Harry admits, “You’re all that’s left for me to want.”

Again, he pauses, but it must be sinking in that Harry isn’t going to pretend to ignore it forever. He’s finally found his voice after a lifetime of holding back. It feels good to let everything pour out now.

And he has to know. Even if that vulnerability leaves him standing out alone in the cold, at least he’ll know he’s alone.

“I don’t know if you realize what you’re saying,” the apprehension strains Louis’s response.

“Can I ask what you pictured for us, before all of this? In your head,” Harry presses through it anyway, “Your little habit of imagining a life with any man who looks your way. I’ve been wondering.”

“Who says I did that with you?” Louis jokes.

“I’m a man, aren’t I?” Harry sways into him from the side, “And I’ve certainly shown you more than a day’s worth of attention.”

“You’re right,” Louis says, but he doesn't offer more.

“Please,” Harry urges, playing at Louis’s sympathies as he’s learned works in his favor, “Because I’ve never—all I’ve got to go on is a bunch of old romance novels, and they don’t seem to be much of a reality. So even if not with me, what do you imagine finding for yourself?”

He lets the calm of the ocean dance between them for quite a few more steps. Harry’s not counting, but if he had to guess, he’d say exactly twenty-three.

“As much as I adore my family, I’d like to move out someday. With someone I love,” Louis finally says, staring off into the distance rather than look him in the eyes, “It doesn’t really matter where we end up, as long as we’re together. I’ll come home from work to tell them about my day and hear all about theirs, and we’ll sit down for supper together, and visit mum’s on the weekends. A dog or two, and just enough enough for us all to get by.”

It sounds nice. Simple. Uncomplicated. And everything in Harry yearns to say he’d like that too.

But instead he says, “Did I mention that I’m an amazing cook?”

Louis laughs, “You’re a far better baker than a chef.”

“But I can do both,” Harry beams, “Or we could have pies and pastries for dinner, if you prefer.”

“You’ve literally described my idea of heaven,” Louis sparkles with the dream of it all.

They could do it together. Harry can see it so clearly. He’d like more than to be a housewife, of course, but he could work at the tailor’s and at least have supper started by the time Louis returns home. Maybe they’d even take in a wayward soul here and there, to raise them like their own, like Louis’s mother has taught him to do. It would be more than Harry’s even dared to dream of, but it’s what Louis wants, and Harry could give it to him so easily.

“I mean it, Lou,” he gulps, wanting it so fucking badly that he’s powerless to stop the words from falling from his mouth, “It could be you, me, and Clifford. We could figure it out together.”

“You are so young,” Louis sighs, looking down at the splash of their feet below.

And suddenly, Harry is done having his feelings hurt.

“Will you stop saying that?” he snaps. “I’m old enough to run a kingdom, old enough to decide to start over, and at the barest minimum, old enough to know how I feel.”

“I’m not saying it to discredit you, Harry,” Louis clarifies, “I’m saying it to remind myself that it’s not proper for me to want any of that with you.”

And that changes things. Because it means that Louis does want it with him, he just won’t let himself, for some stupid reason.

“Eight years is not that much of a difference,” Harry huffs, stopping in his tracks to cross his arms tightly over his chest, separating their entwined fingers in the process.

“You haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Louis just brushes him off.

“Then tell me!” Harry raises his voice just a bit in emphasis of his frustration. “Stop treating me like a kid and explain it to me, or how else am I possibly meant to understand?”

“You can’t understand, Harry!” Louis nearly shouts back. “You’ve grown up in a completely different world. You don’t know what it’s like to exist out here, not really. You’ve no idea the threat we’d face if… if we were to… whatever. Whatever it is you’re dreaming of. It’s not easy.”

“I don’t care if it’s easy,” Harry says.

“Of course you don’t! Because you’ve got this sweet little image of the world that you want to have found out here. And it’s nice, it’s beautiful, I love that you manage to always be so cheery despite the hell you’ve survived,” Louis explains, “But it’s not realistic. I bet you’re thinking that Zayn and Liam are the standard. You probably believe that my friends are how everyone is out here, and that nobody bats an eye at seeing two men embrace each other as they have.”

Harry gulps, because that’s completely true.

“If it isn’t, then I’d like to know what to expect,” Harry says, calmly.

“It’s certainly not nice,” Louis says, “It’s an abomination. A disgrace to humanity, a foul, wretched, sinful practice.”

Harry sucks down the tears welling behind his eyes. Although his father hasn’t made his distaste a secret, Harry has never heard such horrible words used to describe himself.

“You see! That look,” Louis notices, “And that’s just scratching the surface of some of the things I’ve heard. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen, either.”

“Tell me,” Harry demands, because he has to know. Louis’s right that he has to fully know what he’s getting himself into before he can decide whether it’s worth it.

“I can’t do that,” Louis shakes his head. “I can’t be the one to pop your bubble.”

“Please, Lou,” Harry begs. “I need you to tell me. Because I’m not joking when I say that I want you more than I knew it was even possible to want something. More than my own freedom. More than the shores and the flowers, more than all the sunsets and rises the world could ever give me. So, I need to know exactly what that means for me. And for us, if you want me that way too.”

Louis’s brows scrunch together in a way that says pain and pity.

“I’ve watched people be beat within an inch of their life. I’ve seen them lose everything,” Louis says, “Work, family, friends—

“But your friends don’t care,” Harry notices.

“No, they don’t,” Louis nods, “I’ve been supremely lucky to have grown up with the right people. My family is too loving to ever ostracize anyone for being different. And my friends _are_ different, themselves.”

“So it can work,” Harry says.

“Not without a great deal of secrecy,” Louis says. “The town believes that Zayn and Liam are cousins. They don’t show affection, they live in fear around others. Their own parents have disowned them, although they refuse to out them to others, that’s the best they’re ever going to get. They’re not some big dream to aspire to.”

“But they’re happy,” Harry notices.

“And if anyone ever caught them together,” Louis goes on, “They risk death. Imprisonment at best, which often leads to more beatings and then eventually, death.”

“But in the meantime… happiness,” Harry says.

“But the whole point of you leaving the castle was to be free!” Louis objects, “If we were to… I couldn’t live with myself if I were the one to take that from you again.”

“You wouldn’t be taking anything. I’d give it to you, no question,” Harry says.

“You shouldn’t,” Louis argues, “You’ve earned the right to live without restraint.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?” Harry challenges, “If the way people will treat me for loving a man is true, then what’s my other option? To settle down with a woman I don’t want, start a family I don’t want, and be forced to live yet another life that I don’t want? How is that any different than what I ran from?”

“You don’t even know that you don’t want it,” Louis says. “You barely know anything about yourself; you don’t know if you could love a woman. You’ve never tried.”

“Can you?” Harry asks.

“What?” Louis blinks.

“Can you love a woman?” Harry repeats. “Have you tried?”

Louis only sighs, so Harry seizes the opportunity to go on.

“Do you imagine touching her lovingly? Sexually? Does it feel the same for you to imagine it with a man?” He asks, “When you picture coming home to your person, is it a woman, or is it a man you see waiting with a smile on their face to greet you?”

 _Is it me? Could you ever see it being me?_ He keeps inside.

Louis pulls his lips shut into a fine line. Because he knows the answers, and they all disprove his own stupidity.

“Me too,” Harry says. “So don’t tell me I don’t know. I know, Louis. The same way you do.”

“Aren’t you even a little bit afraid?” Louis prompts.

“Sure I am,” Harry gulps.

“Then why bother?” Louis wants to know, “Why not just take what you’ve got? Live with the joy of your freedom after a whole life of being indoors?”

“Because, Lou,” Harry explains, “All that time I spent indoors was wasted dreaming about what it’s like to be a normal person. And I hadn’t even considered that love could be a part of it for me until you came along.”

Harry pauses, letting it sink in, or maybe trying to find the magic words that will make Louis see what he sees, feel what he feels.

“You make me feel like I’m a normal person,” he says. “My whole life, I’ve been telling myself that I’m perfectly fine the way I am, but sometimes it gets hard to believe. Especially since actually being out here in the world and seeing that my father was right all along. About it not being acceptable.”

“Stop that,” Louis says, like it’s automatic, “You are perfect, just the way you are.”  
  
“You didn’t even flinch the first time we met,” he goes on, “You don’t care how I dress or wear my hair. You care about what I think and how I feel, what I’ve been through and how I see the world because of it.”

“You’re my friend, Harry,” Louis says, “Of course I care about those things.”

“But friends don’t make each other blush just for fun. I see that now,” Harry says. “And friends don’t think about kissing each other. They don’t want to be with each other the same way I want to be with you.”

Louis visibly swallows, looking like he’s about to burst into tears. But he holds back in the name of Harry’s freedom or whatever the fuck he’s still resisting for, so Harry just lets it keep coming out.

“I used to want to be a normal person, and now all I want is to be a normal person with you,” he says, “I want to see all the world has to offer _with you._ I want to keep learning things about myself _with you_ , and I want to learn things about you, too _._ So what could be more worth the risk than having everything I’ve ever dreamed of, _with you_?”  
  
He’s burning green into bright blue, holding his breath in the hopes that he’ll be enough. 

Louis blinks. Swallows. Avoids eye contact, then seeks it again.

“You’re that sure?” He asks, as if Harry hasn’t already made it abundantly clear. “After everything I’ve just told you about what it could mean for us, you still want to pursue this?”

“You think I don’t know what I’m talking about, but you barely know the depth of where I’m coming from,” Harry’s heart pulses hard in his ears with each word, “So trust me when I say that the only thing scarier than dying in the name of your own freedom is living an entire life without it.”

“You’re insane,” Louis says weightlessly, “I’ve gone my entire life knowing who I am and never having the courage to actually live it. I’d just resigned to being alone, or maybe someday settling for a nice woman who was tolerable enough. Then here you come, brand new to the whole entire world beyond your castle, and you’re ready to just dive in with no regrets. It’s mental. Who do you think you are?”

Harry pauses, finally stopped in his tracks.

Technically, he’s Prince Harrison Edward Styles the Seventh, but that person has felt galaxies away from him since he was born. So who is he, really? Harry. Harry who loves his sister and himself as much as all the colors of the sky, Harry who braids flowers in his hair and bakes a perfect peach pie, Harry who ran away from the castle and the crown that comes with it, Harry who likes men as more than just friends, and Harry who’s earned the right to figure out the rest of his life, too.

“But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it,” Louis adds, drawing his attention back again, “If I said it’s not all I’ve thought about since our first training session.”

It’s Harry’s turn to be left speechless. His mind quickly morphs into just a string of _he means you, he’s talking about you, he wants You._ It takes him a moment to formulate a coherent response.

“Then the only thing I don’t know is what’s still stopping you,” Harry says.

And Louis just keeps their eyes dancing around one another’s, so Harry considers it a good sign when he reaches to put their hands back into each other’s. He squeezes in a show of grounding support, like always.

Harry waits for twelve more steps before Louis speaks again.

“I’m sorry for underestimating you,” he says. “You are so much wiser than I gave you credit for.”

“I think I can forgive your insolence,” Harry fights to hold back a smile much bigger than the one threatening to take over.

“Thank you for showing mercy, Your Highness,” Louis jokes, and then it’s futile.

And even though Harry’s just displayed courage far greater than even he knew was possible for himself, he suddenly shrinks in the face of what’s still left unanswered. In the same way that Louis doesn’t want to suck him into a life of hidden looks and stolen kisses, Harry doesn’t want to pressure him into anything he’s not ready for.

But then Louis follows up with exactly what Harry needs to hear, without uttering a single word. He just stops their steps to lean in and press their lips together softly, and they rest together in that moment while Harry breathes it all in; his first kiss, his first love, his first everything. The beach and the setting sun and the life he’s been chasing, all so suddenly laid out in front of him.

It’s Harry who pushes their lips together into a deeper embrace. Harry who moves them together, Harry who parts his mouth to let Louis in. And it’s Louis who’s hand crawls against the back of his scalp, under all the hair that sways in the ocean breeze to let his passion slip into it.

And as they stand there, kissing like it’s the last time they’ll ever see each other, he’s sucked into the pit of yearning for a little cottage of their own, where they can work on making all of Harry’s late night fantasies a reality, too.

He wants to know every little piece of him. The full picture of the body under his clothes, the way it could move against his own. Wants to savor every single second as they collect into minutes while he carefully peels back the outside layers, then underneath, and finally the intimate pieces wrapped around the present of a cock beneath it, a feature Harry’s become accustomed to silently peeking and wondering about.

He wishes he knew Louis when he was five and fifteen and he wants to know him when he’s fifty. He wants to know exactly each event that made him who he is and who he’ll become. The parts of Louis’s head that he broadcasts to everyone he meets, the things he keeps close for just the people he chooses to keep around, the things he’s never told a soul and never even plans to. Harry wants to be that for him.

He wants to own Louis in a way that nobody ever can, because of the smarter part of him that knows first hand how impossible it is to keep someone all to yourself. But he’d let himself be kept by Louis.

“Hey, homos!” Zayn calls from somewhere far away, breaking the trance they’d slipped into.

They break apart quickly and just stare at each other for barely a full second before the laughter bursts from their bellies.

“Can we help you?” Louis calls back, sarcastically annoyed by the interruption.

“I know it’s kinda hard to see with all those tongues in the way, but the sun’s starting to set. Time to pack it in!” Zayn calls back.

Louis reaches down to lock their hands together again and lead him back towards where they’d set up camp on the sand.

And Harry couldn’t keep the dimples off his face if he even tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made [rebloggable](https://princesshalo.tumblr.com/post/620998662868369409/you-were-my-new-dream-by-me-princesshalo) for your convenience :) x


	3. Final Act.

_Pour mercy, mercy on me, set fire to history_   
_I’m breakin’ my own rules, I’m cryin’ like a fool_   
_Tall stories on the page, short glories on the fade_   
_I been close enough to touch, but I never cared for love_

_It’s a church of burnt romances  
And I’m too far gone to pray  
It's a solo song and it’s only for the brave_

_If the truth tell, darling, you fell  
Like there ain’t enough dying stars in your sky  
It’s a tall tale, and it’s only hello, no goodbye_

_Pour mercy, mercy on me, I’ll fall upon my knees_   
_And they’ll say, “I told you so_   
_Come on, when you know, you know”_   
_All the lonely shadow dances from the cradle to the grave_   
_It’s a solo song and it’s only for the brave_

Harry awakes to the sound of strumming, and a soft voice floating in from just outside the open window across the room. As his brain slowly catches up with his spotty consciousness, he recognizes it as Louis, so he takes a private moment to absorb the words before preparing to roll himself out of bed.

Louis sounds so angelic when he sings, it clenches Harry’s heart to hear it. Although he does remember Louis mentioning that he played music sometimes, Harry had no idea he was such an incredible songwriter, so capable of producing such full, thorough emotions. He’d wanted to stay in bed a little longer, but he suddenly feels compelled to get up, to race down the halls and throw himself into Louis’s arms for a kiss even more passionate than the ones they’d shared the night before.

He doesn’t race, exactly, but he does wrap himself in the blanket from the bed and pad down the hallway with the full length of his curls dragging behind him, careful to not wake the silent cottage.

“Brave, are we?” H asks, appearing in the doorway and leaning against the frame after the last of the notes fade.

Louis looks over and smiles the crinkles into his eyes.

“Just you,” he says, “I don’t think I ever would’ve moved without you.”

“Ever?” Harry gawks, hiking the covers up higher as he moves to close the distance between him and the bench where Louis is sat. “Seems like you were feeling pretty inspired.”

“Enough to write on it, sure,” Louis says, shyly looking down as he strums a few cords of his lute to distract. “This is quite different for me, because I’ve always considered myself to be brave in a lot of ways, but you’ve given me a run for my money.”

The fact that someone as admirable as Louis could think of him as someone to learn from is an accomplishment in itself. It really says a lot about how Harry’s grown since the day he decided not to take his father’s shit anymore, and yet Louis has no idea just how much of what he considers brave was sparked to life by him.

“Well, I’m not much of a music man myself, but that was beautiful,” Harry says, nudging his shoulder to bring Louis’s attention back, letting him know he doesn't have to hide.

“Thank you,” his smile holds all the warmth of the sunrise as he leans in to press a soft kiss on Harry’s lips.

“Thank you,” Harry says when they part, grinning as he kisses him again and again. Quick, sweet little things that send sparkles down his spine.

Whatever people might have to say about the two of them together, at least they don’t have to hide out here. The nearest neighbor is nearly two acres away, separated by a thick cover of trees around both properties. If they could find a piece of land like this for the two of them, they’d only have to be cautious of the occasional passerby, if that. So in the grand scheme of things, what’s a little trip into town where they’d have to reign it in for a couple hours in exchange for all of this freedom?

“I’ve got a class this morning,” Louis says, breaking their streak after a few minutes. “So, as much as it pains me to part from you, I’ll have to start getting ready shortly.”

“Do you?” Harry teases, although a small part of him does wonder about Louis’s history, “Not gonna stumble upon another unsuspecting prince, I hope.”

“As if I could ever top the last find,” Louis muses.

He could definitely get _on top_ of Harry if he wanted. They haven’t sparred in combat since before Harry left home, and he hadn’t realized how he’d been missing it until that nice little thought happens to pop in to say hello.

“I mean it, though,” Harry says, “No erections this time, even if it is supposedly natural.”

If Louis had been drinking coffee, his face says he would’ve spit it out in disbelief.

“It’s very much not,” he says, as if Harry hadn’t figured that out long ago. “I had to say something to keep you at bay.”

“If only you knew how deeply it did not work,” Harry laughs, recalling all those nights he spent under his covers, imagining what Louis could do to him with that hardness. Going all tingly with the thought that he might actually get to find out someday.

“Well,” Louis hums, giving him a slow look down the length of his body, then meeting his eyes again, “Sharing is caring.”

And now it’s Harry’s turn to blush, because what kind of sexy, flirty way is there to say _I’ve pleasured myself to the thought of you pinning me down as we make furious, rowdy love to each other?_

He’s in way over his head and yet, the blood rushing to his cock says it’s exactly where he’d like to be. Because Louis wants to hear it. And he’s already said he’s thought about it too, so Harry wonders if they’ve thought about the same exact things, and even if they haven’t, then what has Louis imagined? What gets him so hot to the point that he simply has no other option but to reach down and stroke himself to completion?

“Seems like we’ve both got some sharing to do,” Harry says, trying his very best to play it cool despite the spark shooting from his belly. “Perhaps a demonstration?”

Louis’s tongue flicks out over his lips and he pulls them into his mouth, holding back.

“Come here,” he says, curling a finger out to beckon Harry down for another kiss.

Harry’s mind runs off with all those images of Louis on top of him, weighing him down, pressing a hand against his neck as he thrusts down; of pulled hair and smacks across faces and thighs and cheeks, of sticky skin and flushed faces and cries of ecstasy as Louis kisses him so carnally, with tongue and breath and passion.

Then he pulls away and Harry’s little balloon deflates instantly.

“I can’t,” he turns his head away to sever the connection buzzing between them, then igniting it again as he turns back to add, “Not now, anyway. I’ll be late. But I will absolutely be free later on this evening.”

He’s not sure how much noise they’ll be able to make with the family being home as well, but he doesn’t care if it happens tonight or tomorrow or weeks or months from now. They could simply spend the night French kissing until they fall asleep again, and Harry would be just as happy. Maybe even happier, if only out of nerves.

A part of him is overwhelmed by the idea of actually seizing the opportunity to be sexual with someone in such a tangible sense, while another more specific part twitches with excitement. Like he’s done with the rest of the world, and like Louis taught in class, maybe the best way to learn is to jump right in.

“I’ll wear my best nightie in preparation,” he jokes, making Louis laugh to diffuse some of the tension.

“I’m not sure there’s a need for you to wear anything at all, if you prefer,” Louis says, and _oh_ , now Harry’s reddened to his toes.

“Is this not new to you?” He blurts, nervous as a newborn all of a sudden.

Louis blinks.

“Like, have you done this before, with somebody? Talked to them like this?” Harry presses, rephrasing in the next breath, “How often have you felt this way about someone?”

Because he doesn’t know how to ask how many people Louis has made love to before. That’s what he really wants to know.

“I, uh,” Louis stutters, caught off guard, “I’m not a pro, if that’s what you’re asking. But I’ve certainly fancied people before.”

“I know that,” Harry says, “I meant to ask if that’s ever gotten you anywhere. If it’s worked out well.”

“Well, I’m not married to any of them, so I’d say no,” he chuckles.

“What’s it like to fancy someone out here, for us?” Harry wonders next, “Assuming you can’t go through the usual courting one would with a woman.”

“You can’t,” Louis confirms, plucking at a couple of his strings as he thinks of how to explain, “Sometimes you just get a feeling that someone could be interested, so you’ll sort of test the waters to see how far you can run with it. Recall the times I liked to make you blush, back at the castle, and you’ll have an idea.”

“So you were courting me all the way back then?” His eyes widen.  
  
“Was it the full on erection or the invitation to come visit that gave it away?” Louis laughs.

The embarrassing thing is that none of it did. Harry was always unsure of his intentions, up until the kiss they shared at the beach. In his defense, it’s all very new to him.

“How far have you run with it?” Harry asks. “Like, besides people you’ve just fancied but it never went anywhere. Have you been in love before?”

Louis pauses for a moment now as he considers. He looks Harry directly in the eyes when he says, “I’ve never been in love before you.”

And that. Well, that’s just something. Harry could probably catch the nearest cloud and ride it all the way up into outer space if he didn’t still have a million things on his mind keeping him grounded.

“But are you a virgin, too?” He just asks it point blank this time, because Louis is clearly trying to distract him as he dances around the question.

“No,” he finally admits.

Harry swallows the saliva pooled at the back of his throat, but presses on. He already had the feeling that Louis had done all of this before, so he was prepared to hear that. He is absolutely not jealous.  
  
Maybe a little bit.

But he knows it’s silly, because Harry’s the socially stunted freak who’d never bonded with anybody outside the castle until Louis. And that same Louis just said he’s only loved Harry, so nothing on Earth is gonna take that from him.

In fact, Louis has taught him almost all his essential life skills thus far, so maybe this is just one more vitally important thing to add to that list.

“Okay,” Harry nods, “Who?”

“Harry,” Louis says, “I don’t really see how this is relevant.”

“I just want to know you,” Harry says. That’s why it feels comfortable, like even though Louis is talking about other men, it’s still a part of who he is and how they’ve ended up here together. That’s why it matters.

Louis can’t really argue with that, plus he must be learning by now that Harry can be very persuasive when he wants something, so instead he sighs and says, “He was much older… a friend of my father’s.”

“So you prefer older men? That’s why you think I’m too young for you?” Harry jokes, trying to lighten him up again.

“Oh, hush,” Louis assures with a fond rolling of his eyes, “You are just right.”

Harry beams, and keeps the subject focused on, “So what happened?”

“We kissed, we talked, among other things. He was very nice to me,” is all he says.

“That’s it?” Harry prompts. He doesn’t want to linger on the details of what those other things might have been, but Louis is remarkably good at leaving out the juicy romantic details.

“What exactly are you looking for?” He chuckles nervously.

“I’m just curious,” Harry shrugs, “Why didn’t you end up together?”

“It was never like that,” Louis says, “I’ve told you that my father died when I was barely a man. It was a couple years later when we ran into each other at the market and just, like I said, had a feeling about the other. So we decided to explore it. He was recently widowed, so I don’t think he’d ever been with a man before, either.”

Harry had never even considered the idea of making love to someone you didn’t actually love. All of the novels were about love, so something about the thought of being intimate with just anybody didn’t sit right with him. It was fine that Louis had done it, but he doesn’t think he ever could. 

“Was that the only time?” Harry asks.

“Just him,” Louis confirms.

“And you didn’t love him,” Harry addresses.

“I did not,” Louis confirms again.

“But you love me,” Harry says, because he wants to hear Louis say it.

The corners of his mouth pull upwards into a tiny smile, crinkles barely touching his eyes.

“I do,” he says, and Harry is powerless not to smile back.

“Good, because I love you too,” Harry says, leaning forward to steal another kiss. This time tender, their lips meeting like they’ve known each other all their lives.

Louis shifts the focus with a question of his own when they break apart again, “Have you had much practice?”

“Where on Earth would I have gained that from?” Harry laughs.

“Uh, literally anyone who’s ever had the pleasure of meeting you? Outside of family relation,” Louis raises a brow to indicate his confusion. As if he thinks Harry is so attractive he could have anyone he wanted? He always felt he was pretty, but is that really how other people see him, too?

“No,” Harry shakes his head, “No, never. No one.”

“Ah, that’s where all this curiosity is coming from,” Louis hums his understanding, “So I’m just the first who’s come along, then.”

“Sure, the first and only,” Harry says.

“You’re quite smooth for someone so new at this,” he says, bashfully flicking his eyes to the ground, “Such a romantic.”

“For you,” Harry says, grinning this time because despite Louis’s outward resistance, he always gets this tiny v-shaped smile on like he’s trying way too hard not to show the full extent of how it affects him.

“Well, once again, I am honored to be the first,” he says, holding Harry’s gaze in a way that’s teasing but sincere.  
  
He doesn’t acknowledge the _and only_ part, but the hopefulness hangs between them in the longing of his tone. And Harry’s really fucking hoping too. 

“I’m honored to have you,” Harry quips back with a grin, this time leaning in to press his lips on Louis’s; soft, sweet, gentle, and yet, poured full of fervor.

“This class is for a bunch of little ones, by the way,” Louis clarifies, “A standard schooling event on basic self defense.”

“That’s not so standard for you,” Harry notices. He knows that Louis usually works with older adults, which is why he even dished out the warning to begin with. He obviously wouldn’t have accused Louis of getting the hots for a bunch of children.

“It’s occasional,” Louis shrugs, “But I am rather excited about it. I love working with children. Little rascals that they are, just brightens my day.”

“Well, then I’m excited for you,” Harry smiles, “Who needs kids of our own when you’ve got students to nurture in the meantime?”

“Just you, me, Clifford, and the little ones,” Louis grins along with him.

“And our erections,” Harry adds, “After those little ones have gone off to bed, of course.”

Louis bursts out into laughter at that, and then kisses him till he’s dizzy in the head.

*

Harry develops an obsession with the beach, what with it being just a short thirty minute walk away. He and Louis have made sharing the bed a regular habit, as it turns out that making love is amazing and comes quite naturally to him, especially with Louis being so willing to take the lead and give Harry exactly what he wants, never mind all the things he hadn’t even knew there was to want.

So of course he waits until Louis has dressed and readied himself to leave for work in the morning, because he’s not a fucking lunatic who would willingly leave the bed without him.

And once Harry has had his parting kiss, it’s his turn to dress, fasten a utility belt around his waist for protection, pin his hair up into a god-awful mess of a tangled bun or something similar, slip into his favorite pair of worn old boots, and trudge his way through the woods to watch the sunrise on the sand.

It’s perfect, it’s beautiful, it’s paradise. No one is ever up early enough to be there with him, as it’s quite the secluded area anyway, so it’s only ever just Harry and the waves and the ocean breeze on his face.

Except for one morning that comes a couple weeks into his new routine.

The first thing he spots down the sand is a pure white horse trotting its way towards him, with a hidden figure controlling the reins.

He pops back into the cover of trees, heart pounding against his chest, hoping the stranger hadn’t seen him. Because no nearby villager would ever have a white horse; it’s perhaps one of the clearest marks of a royal affiliation.

“Halt! Who goes there?” A voice that’s all too familiar calls after him, and if his heart was racing before, it kicks into overdrive at the sound of it.

“Gemma?” He practically shrieks, poking his head back out as the horse bounds closer.

“Harry!” She’s close enough now that he can see her eyes widen as she pulls the reins to a stop and hops off in one quick movement.

It all happens faster than he can really process. Suddenly she’s on the sand and they’re bounding towards each other, crashing their bodies together in reunion that inspires tears to pour down his cheeks.

“Don’t cry, you dweeb,” she says, but there’s a sniffle in her voice as they pull apart to face each other.

“As if I could’ve stopped it,” he wipes under his eyes, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sure I do!” She shouts, pulling him back for another hug.

“What on Earth is this?” She parts again to feel at his hair, holding out a dry lock with a knot in it from the limp bun behind his head, “Who the fuck have you become?”

He chuckles, knowing the royal version of him would be scandalized to see his own head in such disarray. “Do you have any idea how much moisturizer costs for this much hair?”

“I can’t say that I do, but surely there must be some kind of proper substitute,” she gawks.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he assures her. He reaches back to find the braid that’s holding it all together and pulls on it to let his locks hang loose again. Most of it isn’t supremely knotted, although there are a few bundles here and there.

“What have you done with my brother?” She maintains, shaking her head in feigned shame.

“You’ll never believe the new me,” he beams, “I contribute to a household now! I’m a hunter, a caretaker, a maid… I even have friends to tell you about. And Louis! It turns out that he quite fancies me as well. I have _so much_ to tell you.”

“Slow down,” she chuckles, leading her horse over to the edge of the land where it drops down into sand. She sits herself on the grass there and pats the spot next to her for him to sit, too.

They spend the morning catching each other up on what they’ve both missed. He tells her all about his first days, about meeting Louis’s family and how mentally taxing it was to say goodbye to all the luxuries of castle life and learn to fend for himself. How good it felt when he finally managed to catch his own rabbit, and then again when he nailed a doe just a few days ago. About thanking the animal for its flesh and how they use every part to fuel their life.

He tells her about Louis’s family and friends, about how Liam refused to accept him at first, how Niall liked him right away, and how he found out that men can live together in romantic relationships like Zayn and Liam do. Goes off on a whole story about how resistant Louis was to letting Harry love him and how they finally came to be. How it feels to kiss him, to lay with him, how Harry used to be afraid of the fact that he fancied Louis and how now, it feels like the most natural and right thing he’s ever done. How he feels like he knows himself better than ever out here, and how badly he wished he could talk to her throughout it all.

“I’m so happy, Gem,” Harry smiles when he’s finished just about all there is to tell. “I can’t imagine ever going back.”

“I’m so happy for you,” she smiles back. “I wanted to come find you many times, just to check in, but I was afraid I’d lead them to you.”

“Are they still looking?” He wonders. In total, it’s been nearly four months since he left. He’d have thought they’d given up by now, especially since no one in the village has seen a knight around in weeks.

She fills him in on what it’s been like at the castle without him. Tells him that the king ordered every one of their knights and advisors to sweep from Eroda to its three surrounding kingdoms and beyond. They’ve only recently called off the active search, but he still has groups of them stationed in the woods just outside of every kingdom. She says he’s still refusing to appoint her as the next heir because he’s certain that Harry will reappear one day.

Harry gulps.

“And that brings me to my next question: what the fuck are you doing out here in broad daylight?” She asks.

“I thought it was safe,” he says, “Nobody’s seen the guards in weeks.”

“Anyone could see you, H! At any time. You stick out like a sore thumb,” she frets.

“Have you seen the ads he had drawn up?” Harry rolls his eyes, “No one outside of the castle will recognize me.”

“The guards will,” she emphasizes. “I’m surprised none of them followed me out here today. They try to be subtle about it, but I know father has them track me every time I leave.”

Harry’s stomach drops. He’s been able to pretend everything’s alright for a while now, but talking with her like this, absorbing her worries into his own, forces him to realize he might never be free to be his real self without fear. Not living here, between the kingdoms, with all his hair and dresses marking him like a target.

But that’s the entire reason he left, so it can’t all be for nothing.

For the first time in his entire life, he wonders if his powers would still work if he cut all his hair off. It didn’t look too bad in the alien drawings, and he’d still be free to dress and paint his nails as he pleases. Even tuck a flower behind his ear. Would it be the worst thing in the world to not have to lug all the extra weight around anymore?

Inside the castle walls, it was a symbol of rebellion. Telling his father, _I won’t be who you want_ got him into trouble more than once, but simply existing the way he preferred was somehow more acceptable. Not to mention that taking care of it gave him something to do, something to focus his time and energy on beyond wishing for a world he thought he’d never reach.

Out here, it’s just a nuisance. It gets in the way, it’s harder to keep clean and untangled, there seems to be no room for it within the bounds of the Tomlinson cottage unless he takes twice the time and effort to keep it all done up.

Maybe the time has come to let it go. Not in the name of his father’s wishes, but as his own decision, in the name of his own safety and the safety of all the people he’s come to think of as his new family.

As if summoned by her warning, something heavy knocks him in the back of his head and the pain shoots all the way down his spine.

Gemma’s shocked face as she cries, “No! Please!” is the last image he takes with him before completely blacking out.

*

He wakes with a massive headache pulsing at the nape of his neck, fluttering his eyes open to see nothing but the dirt path moving below him. He’s folded over something on his stomach, the sound of hooves against the ground confirming that it must be a horse. He slowly turns his head to find a guard in full armor carrying the reins as panic swells within him.

That feeling grows even bigger as he looks to the horse across from him to find Gemma slung over the back, still unconscious, while the tips of her hair drag along the dirt.

His first instinct is to scream, but he can’t let the fear overwhelm him that way. He takes a few deep breaths through the cloth that’s been tied around his face to muffle his voice, centering himself to his breathing as he tries to assess the best course of action. If he lets them get him back to the castle, it’s all over. They’ll never let him out of their sight again.

They’ll never let him see Louis again.

The guys had taught him how they carved different symbols on the trees to indicate which way the paths will take them, so he tries to spot something nearby. It’s quite a few more minutes before he spots the little spiral that tells him they’re closing into the village past Louis’s house, so it’s clear that the guards still haven’t exactly figured out Harry’s hiding spot, which works out great for him.

He can’t lead them back to the Tomlinsons, though. So he’s thinking up a plan to run the opposite direction, towards Levithia, to throw them off his trail. If he can lead them there and then disappear within the kingdom’s territory, maybe they’ll think that’s where he’s been staying all this time and end up focusing their efforts miles away from his actual home.

He wiggles his hands against his ties, tugging lightly to figure out if they can be loosened. It feels like all of his organs have dropped into his toes as he realizes the ties feel like his own hair. He strains his feet against the ones on his ankles, and that tugs at his wrists and scalp in turn.

He swallows that fear again, reminding himself that it’s all down to flight or fight now and he doesn’t have time to make himself sick over the reality of it. He’s damn sure going to fly if he can, and he’ll fight only if that’s what it comes to. He’s got a dagger hidden in the belt underneath his dress that he can certainly use to cut himself free, assuming he can maneuver enough to reach it.

He can’t leave Gemma, though. Who knows what they’ll do to her if he gets away. Fuck.

She stirs at that thought as if she can read his mind. She groans, lifting her head up to meet Harry’s eyes and freezing on him in shock.

“Well, look who’s awake,” the guard on her horse hums. It’s no one that he recognizes, but he looks directly at Harry when he says it.

“Your Majesty!” The one riding his horse calls as soon as he’s been alerted.

That’s when Harry notices the third horse trotting a little further ahead of them, adorned with a behind view of the most royal of all garments. His father turns over his shoulder and then forward again when he pulls the reins and calls, “Halt!”

The tension in the air builds and then thickens with each passing second it takes for him to dismount his horse and take his careful steps towards his children. Harry counts exactly thirteen until his father’s standing over him.

“Had a good run, didn’t you?” He taunts. His voice isn’t friendly or happy to see him in the slightest. Harry doesn’t respond, but Gemma begins to struggle and muffle against her mouth covering.

“Enough, dear,” he rolls his eyes, giving a wave to the guard in control of her horse, “You can continue on with her. I need a moment with my son.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the knight nods, again whipping the reins for his horse to start moving again.

Harry keeps their eyes locked together, hers widened in horror as she’s carried further and further away, struggling against her bindings until she’s gone completely.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, you’ll see her again,” the king patronizes, grabbing Harry’s cheeks with one hand to pull his face to attention. “Do you think I would harm my own daughter?”

 _You’d certainly harm your own son,_ he thinks.

“Do tell, though. How did you manage to evade our search parties for so long?”

Harry mumbles against his mouth cover. He’s begun to spread his feet apart, moving them up and down to loosen the tie around his ankle, but hopefully his father will remain distracted by his words instead.

“My mistake,” the king says, pulling it down to his chin for him.

Harry spits in his eye, making the king drop his head again in his reaction to shake the sticky liquid from his face. Harry wiggles his feet more furiously in the few seconds of shut eyes that earns him.

“You little bastard!” The king curses. “You know I don’t get off on treating you this way.”

“Bullshit,” Harry growls.

“Harrison, you’re my son,” the king says, “Why would I want things to be this difficult between us? Wouldn’t it be better for everyone to just live in harmony together?”

“We can, if you let me live in harmony,” Harry says, but even that feels like a lie at this point. Even if his father finally backed down and let him rule the kingdom the way he’d prefer to, at the end of the day the fact remains that he doesn’t want to rule at all. And now that he’s had the experience of living outside the castle, it gives far more weight to the saying that he’d rather die than go back to it.

“Of course you can, within reason,” he says.

“I can be myself out here,” Harry counters, finally feeling the ankle tie slip onto the arch of his foot. “My whole self, without reason. What can you offer me to top that?”

“I don’t have to offer you anything,” his father says, wiggling the face cover back up over Harry’s mouth to muffle him again. “Again, I wish this could be easy for all of us, but if you insist on making it difficult, then so be it.”

Harry’s whole body heats with rage and adrenaline as he watches his father’s back in retreat to his horse. Once he’s fully mounted again, he gives the signal for the guard to follow on the way back to the kingdom.

Harry gives it another minute or so, swallowing every tear that threatens to burst, mustering every bit of courage in him to fight off the nausea bubbling in his tummy. He says a mental prayer for Gemma, for Louis and his sisters and little Ernie and Miss Joannah. For Niall and Zayn and Liam and even his mother and the entire kingdom of Eroda.

Then he rolls his body to hit the ground, hard. And he jumps up not half a second later and takes off running towards Levithia, stumbling his feet completely free from the locks of hair that he loosened around them.

He’s not stupid, he knows he can’t outrun a horse. What he can do is lose them in the thick undergrowth of the forest, so that’s the first place he heads for. He hears his father shout something, hears the horses turn around and hears their hooves pounding against the dirt trails as he hops over the bushes and piles of leaves and sticks, letting branches and thorns scrape the bare skin of his arms and shins as he dashes through the untamed greenery.

He goes deep enough that he can’t see the path anymore, and he hopes they can’t see him. And he keeps running, pulse pumping faster than his sprints as he tries to wiggle his wrists free too. He tries his hardest to focus on nothing but the obstacles under his feet and the sloppy struggle of his hands behind his back as he races forward, only about eighty percent sure he’s even headed in the right direction without the trees to guide him.

He does his very best to block out the sounds of the horses and the shouting between the two of his captors, always just a tad too close for comfort. They don’t seem willing to navigate the woods with their horses though, so at least that gives him a tiny bit of an upper hand.

It must be a few minutes later that he’s finally able to free his hands, nearly tripping over the locks of hair that swing loosely down to the ground beneath him. His chest feels like ice and fire all at once, his breathing heavier than it’s ever been, even outweighing the heart that feels like it’s going to burst under all the pressure.

Still, he manages to reach underneath his dress and grab the handle of the dagger on his left side. He hadn’t noticed until his hand comes out covered in blood, but when he looks down at himself he can see the massive crimson stain where the fabric should be light pink. He must have stabbed himself when he fell off the horse, and the thought of that is absolutely terrifying because he doesn’t have time to heal or even inspect the wound. He just keeps running.

He runs till his legs feel like giving out, and then he runs some more. When he can’t run anymore, his legs still let him walk. He can’t hear the horses anymore, and neither the guards or his father’s voice reach him out here. He has half a mind to just stay hidden, make a burrow in the woods, and live off the land forever, but he knows that wouldn’t guarantee his safety either.

It’s nearly a whole day’s trip to Levithia and he only notices he must be getting close because the light filtering through the trees begins to darken around the same time the forest begins to thin out. He still can’t see any horses or hear any guards, but he won’t let himself relax just yet. As he walks further towards the world’s orange glow, the huge stone wall bordering the kingdom finally comes into view.

He has no idea how his chest can still be pumping so fast without him having passed out from a heart attack, but in his scanning of the area he freezes at the sight of a camp of Eroda knights nearby. He acts fast, quickly turning in the opposite direction, towards the pillars that decorate the entrance to Levithian territory. He must be only a few meters away when his father and the knight from before skid to a stop on the path before him.

He halts again, taking a moment to decide the best route of escape. He looks behind him to the group of approaching knights, which he can now see are led by none other than Sir Michael, then back to his father, and just as he goes to leap into the cover of the forest again, he feels an impossible pain all over his scalp as he’s yanked out of a sprint by his own hair.

“Please!” He shouts, begging now, tears and all, exploding with emotion from the fear of what his own castle holds. “Let me go, please! I have a family here! Please!”

“You have a family in Eroda,” the king growls, pulling him closer until he’s dangling all the way off the ground, held in front of the king’s horse like a slab of skinned meat.

The rest of the Eroda guards arrive on the scene with their swords wielded right at him in the final cementing of his fate. He stares Sir Michael head on, past the sword pointed in his face, futilely hoping to reach the man who assisted in raising him with his frantic pleas.

“No! I won’t do it! You can’t make me!” Harry sobs, fully prepared to get himself killed in his attempt to avoid the monarchy’s reign of terror. “I’ll fight you every step of the way, till the day you die and I take over. I’ll run your precious kingdom into the ground, I swear it!”

“Then I’ll lock you up until you’re ready to reconsider,” the king threatens with complete ease, like it’s not tearing him apart at all. Like it doesn’t even faze him. “Guards! Get ready to head home, and keep your weapons drawn.”

Harry feels himself waning with every word, and yet that somehow fuels him even further to perform one last ditch effort. He’s backed into a corner, it’s the only option, the only thing that could possibly free him now.

In one quick motion, he reaches his dagger up to swipe with all his might just above the roots of his hair, severing the length of it and dropping himself to the ground once more.

The knights and his father all breathe out a gasp as he lands on his palms and knees. The fall wasn’t very high, but it feels like a lightning strike jolts through his skeleton, starting at this ankles. He might’ve sprained one of them because he finds himself limping as he springs up and dashes towards the Levithian entrance, not giving any of them a single second to regain composure, nor himself to mourn.

He figures at the very least, the Levithian guards will earn him a moment of contemplation as they block the entrance from all those bearing the mark of a foreign kingdom.

“Don’t let him escape, you imbeciles!” The king shouts his command.

With the head start, Harry’s plan works. The guards think nothing of a nameless villager running for safety from the king of another land, so he’s able to dash past the six of them without an ounce of pushback while they all come together to form a wall that prevents the Eroda team from entering.

Harry runs just a little bit further into the kingdom, putting a fair amount of distance between him and the raging King of Eroda, otherwise known as dear old dad. He finally hunches over, placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath as he watches the scene unfold. Still keeping prepared to run from total annihilation in case the king does manage to talk his way through.

He knows how these royal things work, though. In order to be granted access to another kingdom, the king will have to prove that he’s got reason to be there. And because Harry’s been hidden for so long, proving that he’s the prince could take days without any immediate evidence on hand. By then, he will have had plenty of time to think up a more solid way out of this.

So it’s a small victory, although he’s unable to let his guard completely down just yet.

He looks his father directly in the eyes as the king tries to talk his way into the kingdom, to no avail.

“My deepest apologies, Your Majesty,” the lead Levithian knight responds to his hysterics, “I’m sure you understand that King Rowan would have our heads if protocol were to be broken.”

“That is my son! Prince Harrison of Eroda, soon to be a king himself!” His father rages on, staring directly back at Harry’s taunting eyes as he does. If there’s anything he knows about the king, it’s how much he loathes to lose a battle, against Harry especially.

“Allow me to present this dilemma to our king,” another knight offers, “I shall return shortly with his verdict.”

“There’s no time for that!” The king objects, “The slimy little shit will be halfway to Etherea by then!”

Harry blinks, distressed by the amount of hostility his own father suddenly seems to harbor towards him, having never seen it displayed so violently before.

“Apologies again, Your Majesty, but it’s the most we can offer,” the other knight attempts to calm him, but it just seems to rile him up more.

“You fools!” The king shouts, “You complete buffoons! Fucking imbeciles!”

“Your Majesty, we’ll have to request that you tone it down a notch,” the knight says, keeping his voice level in face of the king’s tantrum. “We can’t allow you to strike fear into our townspeople.”

A small crowd of passersby have begun to stop and view the commotion, so it seems like a perfectly reasonable request.

“They should be afraid!” The king roars anyway, “You should all be afraid! We’ll sort this out with Rowan later! For now, guards, I order you to storm the gates!”

Everything seems to happen in the span of a single split second after that.

The king rears his horse into the air to intimidate the Levithians into clearing the way. The Eroda knights ready their weapons as told and rush forward behind the king. The Levithians stand their ground and point their spears out in defense.

But the king doesn’t cease; he charges towards the barrier with the expectation that they’ll waver as he closes in. 

They don’t.

And it’s his own recklessness that gets him skewered through the heart.

The entire crowd gasps in shock as he grasps his chest where the iron point pierced him, but it’s completely futile. He’s already choking on the fountain of blood pouring from his mouth as he tries to call for help, and his fingers quickly weaken as thick crimson gushes from the wound as well.

Harry’s just frozen in place, eyes wide open, mouth agape. He can’t process something so sudden and so completely earth shattering so quickly. Thankfully it seems like time has come to a halt as all the guards have paused their charge to absorb the reality of what they’ve witnessed as well.

There was no stopping it. The knight only meant to defend himself and their kingdom from the king’s rampage. It was that single guard or the king, and any sane human would’ve chosen to preserve their own life in such a circumstance. He didn’t mean to cause the death of a monarch in the process.

But Harry can’t even attempt to heal his father now, because he cut off all his hair to enter Levithian territory in the first place.

His brain works quickly to assess the full gravity of the situation. A king is dead, and if the history books have taught him anything at all, it’s that the perpetrating kingdom will have to pay for it with more bloodshed.

“This means war!” An Eroda knight declares in tune with Harry’s thought process.

He watches as the tips of their swords raise into the air, just as a crucial little fact springs to the forefront of his mind and he dashes forward to place himself between the Levithian knights with his palms held out to interrupt their charge.

“No! Stop! Don’t!” He shouts.

“Prince Harrison, step aside!” Sir Michael shouts, stepping into the leadership spotlight in lieu of his father’s absence.

“I won’t!” Harry shouts back. He has to stand his ground. The time has come for him to be strong for himself, for the future of the kingdom… his kingdom. Both kingdoms, because a war would do nothing but bring more pain and suffering to all of their people.

“Our king has been murdered!” Sir Michael argues.

“I know, I know that! I see,” Harry chokes out the words, because although they’ve had their disagreements, he’d never have wished this fate upon his own father. Or anyone, for that matter.

He just wanted peace. All he wanted was to live and let live.

“And as the rightful heir, his death leaves me in charge!” Harry shouts for the whole lot of them to hear. He’s grasping at straws as he struggles to come up with a way to avoid more pain and suffering to the mountain of grief his life has already brought upon them.

They blink back, looking expectantly towards him now as he lets the power of the monarchy sink in.

“Your father is dead, Prince Harrison,” Sir Michael repeats more clearly, “Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Maybe he planned it that way,” some other knight suggests, twisting a knot into Harry’s throat.

“Of course it affects me!” He growls, “How dare you accuse me of treason! Most of you have known me since I was a child. You must know I’d never do such a thing.”

Some low mumbles arise from the group of them, but Harry can’t make out anything clearly until Sir Michael speaks up again.

“He’s right. The prince may have taken issue with the crown, but we all know he never wanted it for himself,” he reminds them, “He’d rather run than accept this responsibility.”

Harry grits his teeth at the jab, fully writing off Sir Michael as someone who’s loyalty cannot be trusted, although his words might have just saved him from a bigger disaster.

“I’d rather have peace than war,” Harry rephrases for him, “I’d rather my father left me alone than to have gotten himself killed for his beliefs. And for the sake of our people, we cannot let his mistakes send us into a war we’re not prepared to wage.”

He must be making sense, or at the very least they’re not willing to disobey him as the rightful king in his father’s place, because they slowly begin to lower their weapons again.

“Think of your families who await your return,” Harry appeals to their emotions, “Consider their lives, and the lives of our people. If you can find it in your hearts, consider the Levithians as our brothers in humanity. Consider their families and their kingdom as well.”

Some low murmurs begin to make their rounds. He can’t make out what any of them have to say, but he’s managing to hold them off, and that’s all that matters. His heart beats for Louis and his family, _Harry’s_ family, including Gemma and his mother.

She’ll be devastated to hear the news, and her pain washes over him. It’s hard to say exactly how Gemma will handle the loss, but it certainly won’t be received as good news to anyone but himself.

A fact he’ll never admit out loud to anyone besides Louis, that despite his grief for the others, he’s most overwhelmingly relieved.

They don’t have to hide anymore. If the kingdom is in Harry’s hands now, it means he’s free to lead it as he sees fit. It means that the Tomlinsons and Zayn and Liam and Niall will all be safe from prosecution for all their kindness and support when he lived on the run. It means he can breathe again, and it suddenly feels as though he’s never truly known what that’s like.

“If my father is gone it makes me the rightful King of Eroda,” he brings those thoughts to life in the most respectful way he can muster as he addresses his knights, “And as your new king, I order you all to collect his body and return it home for a proper burial ceremony. There will be no wars waged today.”

“King Harrison, Your Majesty,” the Levithian knight who wielded the king’s final blow approaches him, “My sincerest apologies. You must know that I never meant—

“I know. I saw,” Harry nods in acknowledgment, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder, “You will be pardoned in this instance, but be warned of our retaliation if any further action is taken. Should anyone decide to view my grace as weakness, then a war it will be.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Truly, I am so, deeply sorry for your loss,” he takes a knee and presses a fist against the chest of his armor in a show of respect that his other knights promptly follow.

Harry simply purses his lips and gives a single somber nod as he turns back to his own army, just in time to watch them drape his father’s lifeless body over the back of his horse.

He squeezes his eyes shut and pukes in the middle of the pathway.

*

The formal addressee to the people of Eroda happens two mornings later, after the news has already spread by word of mouth and the burial has been arranged.

As the knights delivered his father to the castle doors, he watched his mother break down in sobs that racked her whole self to the core. He watched Gemma’s eyes well with tears of such complicated emotions she hasn’t been able to express. But he did raise her, and never with as much disrespect as he showed to Harry. He’s so deeply ashamed to admit that he doesn’t feel even a fraction of their grief at the loss of their husband, father, king.

But he is the new king, and the only thing left for him to do is step up as a leader should. It’ll be the first time that the kingdom has seen him since he was aged four years, so naturally, Louis is there for support. Even the rest of the Tomlinsons stand by in their best blacks, despite never having lived within the confines of the kingdom.

Queen Anne’s eyes are still welled with tears as she pulls him in for a hug, and Gemma whispers to him over her shoulder.

“You can do this,” she reminds him to quell his bundled nerves.

He looks over at Louis who’s given them appropriate space to grieve as a family unit, but after their embrace ends, he waves his lover over to the drapes before stepping out onto the balcony.

“Tell me I’m not the biggest fraud on the face of the planet,” Harry begs.

“You are absolutely not,” Louis assures him with eyes so blue and beautiful and fierce they leave no other option beyond believing him, “You had a complicated relationship, to say the very least. It’s okay to not be upset as everyone else.”

Harry nods, but he still has to swallow the lump forming in his throat. He feels guilty that he doesn’t feel bad. Guilty that he can’t feel everyone else’s pain, and guilty that he has to pretend to.

He didn’t even cry in the privacy of his room, and the thought of not having a single tear to shed for his own blood makes him feel like a complete monster.

But he can’t recall a single time that his father ever showed affection, ever made Harry feel loved. Maybe he did have his own ways of expressing it, but they weren’t ways that Harry could understand. So after a lifetime of being shamed, rejected, and controlled, the king’s death left nothing more than a wretched clenching around Harry’s heart for the genuine relationship they’d never get to have.

And that didn’t feel fair to his mother, his sister, the palace staff, and all the people of Eroda that he must have done good for, considering how they’ve all gathered to pay their respects.

“You’re empathizing, and that’s completely genuine,” Louis brushes the back of his palm over Harry’s cheek, starting a spark between them. Harry doesn’t give a damn who sees or what they have to think about that, although a kiss might be taking it a step too far.

Even though he’d love nothing more than to be able to do that right now. He can’t help it if Louis looks like a goddamn angel in formal black mourning wear, with his hair slicked and proper.

“And if they hate the way you look, it doesn’t fucking matter,” Louis continues, resting a finger under his chin. “You’re a beautiful person, inside and out. If they can’t see it themselves, then fuck ‘em all.”

Harry smiles as he smoothes out the front of his heavy black velvet skirt, while Louis begins to fiddle with the buttons around his neck to make sure it’s immaculate. He goes for Harry’s left hand, then his right, to check the polish on each. He presses his lips to the ring finger of them both. And finally, he reaches up to secure the sprig of baby’s breath behind Harry’s ear, then stands back to smile at his work.

Harry almost reaches out to stroke the length of his braids for comfort, but it’s impossible not to notice their absence.

“Go. Your kingdom awaits,” Louis nods his approval and suddenly Harry feels silly for worrying to begin with. Even if he fails miserably and everything goes wrong, he’ll still have Louis to come home to at the end of the day. And it’s hard to feel anything but pure joy at the thought of that.

He signals for the servant to pull the rope that will spread the drapes open and reveal them all to the kingdom. The light begins to peek through and the royal family steps out with him, stopping halfway to let him approach the edge of the balcony to overlook a sea of people.

He looks down, swallows the bubble of intimidation rising in his chest, and then rips off the bandage with the start of his speech.

“I’d like to say good morning, people of Eroda,” he makes sure to project to every one of the faces gathered in the courtyard before him, even the peasants at the farthest edge of it all. “But as I’m sure you all feel the loss of my father in your hearts, my family grieves as well. So this morning is anything but that.”

He’s surprised to have earned a low mumble, a weak chuckle at something that shouldn’t be funny at all. And yet, sometimes a bit of humor can help the process along.

“I know that you’ve all waited impossibly long to see my face, and some of you may not believe I deserve to stand in my father’s place,” he addresses, “To that, I’d have to agree.”

A low gasp, some more mumbles, this time sounding concerned. Two of them from behind, because Harry hadn’t prepared his family for what he decided to say, let alone what he’d prepared to do with his new position of power.

“My father and I rarely saw eye to eye, but I know that in his heart, he only wanted what was best for me and our kingdom,” part of Harry does believe it, though the other part recalls the unparalleled fury in the king’s eyes right before he died a little too vividly. So the words feel heavy and uncomfortable on his tongue, but he slides them out anyway for the benefit of the Eroda citizens.

“He will be greatly missed, and I invite you all to stay and join us in his celebration of life after we’re done here,” Harry lets that wash over them all for a moment of shared silence before he goes on.

“I regret to admit he had a lot of expectations for me as his son and your rightful heir, that I failed to meet despite my best efforts,” he continues, letting the honesty pour out of him because he doesn’t how else to exist in this world beyond wearing his whole heart on his sleeve, bleeding and raw for everyone to marvel at. “So for me to take over in his absence would feel like a disservice to all he stood for in his time as king.”

Some more mumbling, this time only from the loved ones standing behind him.

“That is why I stand before you today to announce that as your rightful heir, I cannot accept the responsibility of caring for a kingdom that I’ve not had the honor of knowing for so many years,” he goes on, letting the reactions come as they may.

“As your new king, with nothing but your best interest at heart, I’ve come to the conclusion that your fate will be in far more capable hands with the beloved Queen Anne, who’s raised you like her own children,” Harry announces, hearing the sharp intake of breath come from his mother, “And when her time on Earth fades with the last sunset of her days, I’m certain that Princess Gemma will be humbled to follow in her footsteps.”

Some more mumbling, increasing in volume as he waves the two of them forward to stand by his side. He reaches down for his mother’s hand, then looks her in the eyes and nods. She looks utterly conflicted, but at the end of the day, this is her kingdom. And she has always worked to understand him, but this time it seems to click instantly. Of course this is the best thing for them all.

Despite everything that’s changed over the past few months, a few simple things haven’t; he was never meant to rule this kingdom, he’s never been at home here. And Eroda deserves a passionate leader as much as he deserves a passionate life.

She smiles slightly, blinking away her tears as they bond over all the things left unsaid between them.

“And so, as your rightful king for the very brief moment,” he turns back to the crowd and holds her hand up high with his own, “I hereby declare the future of Eroda to be a matriarchy!”

He’s pleasantly surprised that they start to clap, slowly at first and then gaining momentum until it becomes a roar of applause.

Maybe some would think Harry’s selfish for stepping down in the name of his own wants and needs, but Harry would say that after years of being trapped in a life that was barely even worth it, he deserves to pursue something greater.

And maybe his father wouldn’t approve at all, but he’ll carry that with him to the grave. Because sometimes fathers can be wrong for their children, and kings can be wrong for their kingdom.

*

“You were amazing,” Louis fully kisses him behind the relative safety of the drapes again, unabashed and unashamed as he grabs Harry’s face on both sides and smacks one right on his lips. “I’m so proud of you, King Harry.”

“Shortest reign of all time,” Harry grins, blushing and glowing and alive.

“Harry, sometimes I truly do not get you,” Lottie simply doesn’t seem to understand the concept of not wanting to be a royal. “Why wouldn’t you want to rule now that your father can’t stop you from doing what you want?”

“Too much responsibility,” Harry shrugs, “And besides, I’ve got you all to take care of now,” he nuzzles her head with his knuckles like the little sister he never had before.

“You don’t have to rule to live like royalty, you know,” Gemma interjects, simply letting them linger on the thought.

“I—what?” He blinks.

“You’re welcome to come home, H. If you want,” she spells it out for him, looking towards their mother for the approval that she’s already nodding towards them, “There’s plenty of room for everyone.”

“You’re serious?” Harry’s eyes widen. He hadn’t considered that ever being a possibility, but of course not while his father was still around.

While he has come to love their crowded little cottage in the woods, it would be nice to get some space again.

“You’ve done such a good thing today, Harrison. I’m so proud of you,” his mother muses as she pulls him in for a hug, her hand stroking the top of his head. “More than a few things could use some changing around here, but the most important is for you to feel welcomed again. My sweet boy.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn for his eyes to well with tears as he overflows with all the love in the world, picturing this new utopia of his life where he gets to keep all the best of the old and new. Where he still gets to see brighter days for the kingdom he grew up in, where he actually has the choice to be a part of it or not.

“We’ll have to discuss house rules before anything happens,” Miss Johannah chimes in, “We don’t live in no-man’s land for no reason. Kingdom customs can be iffy, so I’ll need to make sure we’ll all be safe here.”

“Sorry, Johannah, is it?” The queen asks, extending a hand for her to shake, “For anyone who’s treated my son like her own, you’ll have whatever you need. Walk with me.”

The two of them fall into step as they head towards the garden to begin the celebration ceremony, and all the kids stand in a line comprises of jaws dropped and jitters.

Louis squeezes Harry’s hand in pure anticipation.

*

So, the Tomlinsons do end up moving into the castle, officially becoming citizens of Eroda while still keeping the cottage they built their home in to travel back and forth at their leisure.

Harry reverts to his prince title, while Queen Anne and Princess Gemma happily begin to handle all the official royal responsibilities. A new law is enacted to protect Harry and Louis and anyone like them or somehow different in other ways from violence and discrimination. And Harry gets to watch alongside the love of his life, as Eroda slowly begins to cleanse the rigidity of tradition from its system and transform into the utopia of kindness and love that he’d always dreamed of.

A perk of having the freedom to travel between the kingdom and cottage meant that he and Louis could run off together for some alone time whenever they wanted, so sometimes it was just him and Louis and Clifford, just like they’d dreamed of together.

And sometimes, their dreams were fulfilled with a castle full of warmth, where servants and advisors and even the knights all began to feel like an extension of family under the more lax reign of the matriarchs. Miss Johannah wanted to make clear that she was not to be considered as high status as a royal, so as soon as the castle staff tried to treat her as such, she treated them to a day off feast prepared by the whole Tomlinson clan’s helping hands. It all became a lot easier to relate to each other after that.

Zayn and Liam were content with their life in the village, although they did begin popping by to sell their clothing and teach some lessons to the townspeople with Louis. And Niall was ecstatic at the opportunity to spend a greater portion of his time hanging out in a castle than his old dust bucket of a home, as he’d put it, so he became a regular face around town too.

It seemed like everywhere Harry turned, there was a spot of happiness blooming around him. After a few months, his mother even seemed to reach a place of peace with the loss of her husband, once she and Harry were able to sit down and unpack everything that went wrong between them. She still missed certain things about him, of course, but she found it impossible not to view him in a whole different light after uncovering the extent of just how awful he was to their own son. She promised Harry that if she would’ve had any idea, she would’ve stepped in a long time ago, and together they were able to cry and heal.

Harry even began to grow out his hair again, although since the magic had been severed it only draped slightly over his shoulders these days. Flowers and fingernails were still his favorite accessories; maybe even more so now that he couldn’t find a single reason to feel ashamed of them.

So maybe cutting his hair wasn’t the worst thing in the world, as he’d once thought, because it seemed that all its magic ended up melting out into the rest of his life instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for making it to the end, my dears! I hope it was a fun and wild ride!
> 
> If you did enjoy, please take a moment to give [the tumblr post](https://princesshalo.tumblr.com/post/620998662868369409/you-were-my-new-dream-by-me-princesshalo) a reblog, even if you can’t find the words to express your love.
> 
> For those who do have thoughts to share, comments and kudos are always appreciated! And please feel free to reach out on my blog as well.
> 
> Thank you again for reading :) x


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